


November Mystrade 2017

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Common Cold, Depression, Dialogue, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Freeform, French talk, Ghost Mycroft, Heart Attacks, Honeymoon, Hospitalization, Implied Pre-Johnlock, Kid Sherlock, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Mentions of Ex-Boyfriend, Mild Language, Mycroft is a Softie, Nicknames, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Phone Sex, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Showers, Sickfic, Singing, Smoking, Teen Mycroft Holmes/Teen Greg Lestrade, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 09:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12603596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: Another month of Mystrade. One shots, short multi-chapters, AUs, character studies, fluff, etc.





	1. What's Left of Me: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I'm gonna try again! This might run different, as I'm much busier these days. Some things might be shorter, I might not be able to finish. But I've got it planned out more this time, and I'm feeling confident. Let's see how it goes. Content rating will be updated as we go, as well as the tags that apply to later chapters.

Wren Calling Manor was, if local talk was to be believed, once one of the more quaint examples of country opulence outside of London. Located in Berkshire Down, it overlooked a sloping incline to idyllic pastures on one side while being fenced in by a dense tree line from behind. Inlaid with distinctive red brick and white trim around the front facing windows, the silhouette was a simple rectangle with a few rising towers on the roof, and two smaller wings on either side. Only two stories, but expansive enough that a small family and the corresponding amount of servants could be comfortably accommodated.

 

Apparently the property had not been deemed historically important enough for deep-pocketed patrons to flick money at for upkeep, and so the building had descended into a grey, depressed state of disrepair. A shame, really. One could imagine the place as the setting for one of those respectable period movies where refined men and women quietly despaired over the small dramas of their lives. And despite its age, the house still seemed quite sound of structure.

 

The broken pane of glass in the far right ground window was a newer addition – thoughtfully added for easy access to the rusted latch on the inside. It still took a few firm shoves to coax the lower sash up, but it eventually gave way with a harsh creak. One quick vault over the sill, and a pair of feet landed on the wood paneled floor. There was some fumbling, a click, and then light cut through the dust soaked air.

 

The intruder paused, sweeping the beam of his torch around. Snatches of laughter and jeering whoops floated in after him through the open window. He frowned, his previous swaggering bravado replaced by irritation. Mostly at himself. It’d have been so simple to shrug off the older boys’ goading, to just walk away. He could walk away right now; get on his bike and give this whole excursion the finger. But he wouldn’t. His bloated sense of ego may have landed him in this annoyance, but even though he knew better, Greg Lestrade’s pride was more important than being sensible.

 

Besides, the task wasn’t too much of a hardship. The house was a favored proving ground of sorts for the boys. They’d all done the same trial. There were thirteen windows arranged across the front face of the house. Nearly all of them were marked with large Xs across the glass. All he had to do was choose an untouched window and add his own signature to the group.

 

And of those choices, Greg had decided on the farthest right window on the second story.

 

Through the double doors and a right turn down the hallway led Greg to the main foyer. He kept an eye out for any weak spots in the floor, but otherwise he strode along without concern. The stairs were treated with a bit more caution, but besides one wobbly step they held firm. He slowed his pace as he passed a group of oil paintings lined along the wall. Portraits of the family who’d once lived here, most likely. All of them had been defaced in varying degrees; moustaches painted over the stiff upper lips, rings around eyes. The embellishments were an improvement on the subjects from what Greg could tell – stodgy looking bunch of prats, the lot of them.

 

He paused at the last two pictures. One of a boy around eight or so, pale with a bramble of dark curls on his head. His features could almost be considered angelic had they not been so sharp. The little frown only served to make him look even more contrary, like he’d sat for his painting scowling the whole time. Greg found the thought amusing.

 

Then the other. Older in his late teens. His face wasn’t quite as angular, and his hair was a lighter shade of brown and auburn. But that restrained expression of annoyance was too similar to the boy’s to be coincidence.

 

Brothers then.

 

He was an impossibly posh looking sort of bloke, lanky and almost paler than the boy. Even just in a portrait his eyes seemed to glare disapprovingly at Greg, looking down on him over the end of his long nose. Greg scoffed under his breath and continued on, oddly rankled.

 

The door to his goal stuck fast when he pushed on it. Greg guessed that was why the window behind it was unscathed – the lazy sods in his group must have just gone for the easier targets in the house. Greg wasn’t so easily deterred, especially when he had something to prove. His first kick was tentative, but when he felt how the door gave way a bit, he put more force behind the next blow. The hinges strained under the pressure. Once more, and the door crashed open.

 

Greg raised an eyebrow as he entered, shivering slightly from the sudden brush of cold air. The bedroom was nearly three times the size of his own. The large four-poster still had sheets on it that were discoloured from dust and age. There was a dresser, and an impressive oak desk against the far wall. The biggest point of interest was the towering bookcase, made of wood so dark it was nearly black. A few books still stood on its shelves, but they looked so tattered and worn that Greg couldn’t make out any of the titles.

 

Greg stepped over to the window. Down below, he could just see the shapes of the other boys huddled in the shadows of the house. He rapped hard on the glass three times. Once sure he had their attention, he pulled the spray paint can out of his jacket.

 

Greg gave his red X two coats – he wasn’t going to have any of those wankers saying he hadn’t done a proper job. He simply tossed the canister away after finishing, eager to leave and be done with it. As he cast his torch’s beam around the room a final time, he stopped short when the light struck a small picture frame sitting on the dresser. He squinted in the dimness, uncertain at first. He had to walk over and look closer to be sure.

 

This was an actual photo as opposed to a painting. Black and white, it showed a grassy expanse with a tree taking up a large part of the focus. Standing in front of the trunk were the two boys from the hallway portraits. The difference in their demeanors was so dramatic Greg almost doubted it was them. They both were actually smiling for one. The smaller boy’s arms were wrapped around his brother’s waist as he pressed his cheek against his sibling’s hip. The young man seemed to be running an affectionate hand through the boy’s hair, looking toward the camera like he was trying to hold down a laugh until the picture was taken.

 

Greg was now convinced whomever was responsible for those paintings from before must have been a complete hack. The little boy still looked like trouble, to be sure. But less the kind you wanted to dump head over heels into a bin and more the kind of kid that you couldn’t help but be fond of even when he was driving you spare. This was a kid you looked at and could tell that someday, he was going to take on the world in a fantastic fashion.

 

But it was the older of the two that truly held Greg’s attention. He still had the piercing eyes, the pale skin, the slight hook at the end of his nose. But in that moment, caught in that instance of happiness, he hid nothing from camera - the full extent of his heart on display. It transformed him, highlighting his smile, how his hair fell over his forehead. How even from the frozen time of an old photo it seemed like he could know everything about a person in the space of a look.

 

He was beautiful.

 

Greg couldn’t tear his eyes away. His hand lifted, reaching out for the picture frame…

 

A sharp flash of cold bit into Greg’s wrist. He’d barely taken in the air to gasp when his arm jerked back. Then he slammed against the ground, his shoulder searing as though he’d been punched with a solid fist of ice. He scrabbled to his feet, eyes wide. A groaning creak crackled under his feet. It came again, joined by other scrapes and rasps from all around him, rising in volume. The ceiling, the window, down the hall, all throughout the foundation. The house itself seemed to be writhing and wringing into some new, convoluted form.

He felt the cold surge behind him, spun around to look –

 

Black, dead eyes burned into him. The face was bloated, flesh peeling off to show ragged muscle.

 

A voice breathed, and Greg didn’t know if it was in his ears or burrowing into his head.

 

_GET_

_OUT_

Greg only caught tangential details as he tore out of the room and down the hall. The building screaming. The portraits lifting and slamming back against the wall. The floor jerking under his feet, gripped in some paroxysm. 

 

His foot hit the faulty stair step. He pitched forward, his ankle buckling.

 

His back caught against the edge of one of the stairs. Then his hip.

 

He hit the ground. His head impacted against the floorboards. Colours exploded behind his eyes.

 

The house’s raging abruptly ceased.

 

Greg groaned. Paralysis ebbed and flowed through his body. He tried to lift his head, to sit up. A single dull tone blared in his ears, deafening him. He winced, pain twisting through his leg. The world was too shaky, going off balance.

 

He glanced towards the top of the stairs.

 

The young man from the picture stood on the landing, staring back. He opened his mouth, saying something.

 

Greg fainted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to start with a bit of spook for the end of October. Needs one than one chapter for it. This has the potential to turn into something longer. We'll see....


	2. What's Left of Me: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg does some hard thinking about what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I wouldn't call this the most active of chapters. This one became a bit more of a slow burn than I thought it would be.

Bruises on his back and hip. A sprained ankle. And a mild concussion.

 

Greg had woken up in hospital after his mates had dumped him there and unceremoniously buggered off, though not before they’d spun the cover story of how he’d hurt himself by falling off his bike. He’d gone along with it – easier to avoid the messy issue that he’d been injured while breaking and entering.

 

Greg could tell his father hadn’t bought that version of events for one second. But Dan Lestrade had been visibly disturbed by the shell-shocked expression on his son’s face. So he’d held off on the questions and listened to the doctor outline out how Greg’s recovery would play out.

 

It was three days later while sitting down to dinner that the inevitable conversation took place. They’d sat in eating in silence for a long stretch of time when his dad put down his fork and simply said, “Well?”

 

Greg wasn’t in the habit of lying to his father. Not because he had some moral need to do so, but because if there was anyone who would take him seriously, it was his dad. Even so, the experience had felt unreal, like something he’d seen in a movie. But he gave the best approximation of what happened that he could.

 

His father went quiet after Greg had finished. Then he gathered his plate up and walked over to the sink.

 

“Shook you up pretty good, didn’t it?”

 

Greg stared at his remaining food. His thoughts seemed to blur the more he tried to sort through them. He remembered the effects of his terror and panic better than what had actually caused them. His own brain was betraying him.

 

Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe he’d finished spray painting, and instead of seeing some ghostly horror, he’d just walked out of the room. Then he’d tripped and hit his head. The monster, the shaking floors and walls, the screeching groans of the foundation – just hallucinations caused by a head injury, further encouraged by skulking around a spooky house.

 

It was the most logical explanation. Greg was so mentally exhausted at that point that it would have been easier to just accept it as truth.

 

But through all his muddy memories, he could still see that young man looking down at him from the top of the stairs. The image was crystal clear – the strains of red in his hair, the winter sky in his eyes. His hand had been clenched, his neck muscles tense. But Greg’s mind didn’t see fury in his pale expression.

 

He saw distress.

 

“Not all of it,” Greg murmured.

 

His father eyed him, but didn’t press any further that night. Probably because he had no idea what else he should say to Greg. Mr. Lestrade was a practical man. He believed in what he could see in front of him, in things backed up in fact. But he knew his son. He might not know what to make of such a fantastic story, but he wouldn’t dismiss it either.

 

Greg’s dad had never been a fountain of wisdom, but he was dependable, patient. He was willing to give Greg his space to work through what he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

 

Greg loved him fiercely for that.

 

Not that that prevented Greg from being grounded later, of course.

 

* * *

 

 

The light of day did little to reduce the sense of foreboding blanketing Wren Calling Manor. Greg hovered near the car, eyeing the house warily. Five weeks and plenty of time to strengthen his resolve for this venture, only for it all to fall away the instant he set eyes on the place again.

 

Tightening his jaw, he grabbed his supplies from the passenger side seat. He wouldn’t have managed to bring all of it on his bike, so he’d borrowed his father’s car. It didn’t raise too many questions since it was a Sunday and his father had wanted to stay home for the game.

 

The window with the broken pane was still open. Greg hesitated, unsure if entering in that manner once more would come off as ill intentioned. Then again, if the front door was a no go, he’d end up having to jimmy some other window open, and that wouldn’t look any better.

 

Gingerly, Greg lifted his burden through the window and set it down, jerking his arm back as though he expected the sash to suddenly slam down. He quickly scrambled inside himself before the urge to run back to the car overwhelmed him.

 

He froze where he was, waiting. The fact that the house hadn’t immediately leapt into a frenzy seemed like a good sign. He took a step forward.

 

The door to the hallway abruptly slammed shut. Greg jumped, his skin prickling. The floorboards groaned - something shifting restlessly beneath him, hackles raised. Dust fluttered from the ceiling as the room quivered violently.

 

Greg stood completely still, desperate to bolt out the window but too terrified of provoking a worse reaction by doing so.

 

On the plus side, it did add credence to the `it really did happen and you're not cracked` side of things.

 

Greg just wished he knew if that was a good thing or not.

 

After a minute or so, the activity quieted. The air still felt primed, like whatever was watching awaited his next move.

 

“Um-“ Greg swallowed. “Guess you remember me.”

 

A rasping creak emitted from somewhere outside of the room.

 

“Jesus,” he muttered. He took a breath, stumbling on. “I’m uh- I’m not here to do that again. I swear.”

 

There was a whispering groan of wood against wood in response. The sound almost came off as skeptical.

 

Encouraged, Greg added, “I’m sorry, by the way. For doing that. It was crap of me. That’s why I came back.” He gestured to the bucket he’d brought - cleaning fluids, a jug of water, and sponges nestled inside. “Thought I should clean up what I did. To apologise. And uh- if you wanted, I could do other stuff too. Straighten things up, I mean. If you want.”    

 

Greg held his breath, heart pounding as he got the distinct impression he was being carefully considered.

 

Across the room, the door to the hallway shuddered, and then slowly swung open.

 

Greg nearly wheezed out a hysterical laugh. He shoved it down and hoisted his bucket, nodding weakly.

 

“Okay,” he said, “I'll get started then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Greg's dad. I think I might need to work with that character in later things, shape him out.


	3. What's Left of Me: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and his... host banter. In their own roundabout way.

“Alright.” Greg tossed the sponge into the bucket and stepped back, rolling the stiffness out of his arm. His muscles ached, but he’d finally coaxed the last bit of paint from the glass. With all the dust and grim gone as well, the window looked even better than it had before he’d mucked it up. “Think that’s all of it.”

 

He started slightly as a sharp tap rang out from the windowpane. He looked around, a bit anxious again. “What? Sorry, I don’t-“

 

A murmuring creak snaked inside the walls. Just at the edge of his hearing, Greg thought he even heard what sounded like a long-suffering sigh. Another tap came from the glass, a bit louder this time. More taps followed, stringing together like some slow, insistent Morse code.

 

Greg finally got the hint. He stepped closer, his eyes focusing in on where the noise was emitting from. Next to the spot, he discovered a few specks of paint he had missed, nestled between the glass and the wood of the lower rail.

 

“What, that? That’s barely even there-OUCH!”

 

Greg jumped as a pinch of ice suddenly brushed across his earlobe. He clapped a hand over the side of his head and whirled around. “Did- did you seriously just-”

 

He yelped again as his other ear was flicked. “Okay, okay! I’m getting it!” Greg snatched up the sponge and renewed his scrubbing efforts, grumbling under his breath.

 

“Git.”

 

Far off, like the faintest of whispers, Greg could have sworn he heard a chuckle.

 

* * *

 

 

Through the next few hours, Greg went from room to room removing each X from the windows. The older paint seemed to take more effort to clean off, and he had to pause for a few breaks. His unseen companion was a rather strict taskmaster, insisting that each window was spotless before declaring satisfaction with Greg’s work. Oddly enough, Greg soon lost his irritation at that fact, settling into a comfortable groove.

 

It wasn’t until the fourth window that Greg realised he wasn’t nervous anymore. The presence rarely interacted with him besides pointing out spots he’d missed or murmuring approval of his efforts through rasps and creaks of the house. It became comfortable – almost as though someone were working alongside him, keeping him company.

 

Greg started talking. A few questions about the rooms here and there at first. There was some difficulty getting around their communication barrier until Greg had the entity make a knocking sound once for yes and twice for no.

 

Greg’s mind couldn’t help but try and see the house as it used to be. Most of the furniture and furnishings was gone, but what was left gave Greg a kind of skeleton to build from. He found the study and imagined it lined with bookshelves bordering every wall, encircling in a large desk on the far side. The kitchen was easily recognisable, remnants of a rusted stove still there. There had apparently been a live-in cook and he pictured those two brothers sitting at the counter, watching a matronly woman prepare their lunch. He filled in the blank spaces of the canvas, wondering how well his thoughts matched reality.

 

The sun began to set as Greg finished his sixth window. He stretched, wincing when his back cricked. “I think I can do three more before it gets dark.” He glanced at the nearly empty container of cleaner. “I’ve got another bottle out in the car,” he said, heading towards the door. “I’ll go grab-“

 

The floor cracked under Greg, and the toe of his shoe broke through the wood. He wobbled off balance before crashing to one knee.

 

“OW! Bloody arsing crap!“

 

_Are you alright?_

 

“Ugh. Yeah,” Greg muttered. He managed to get up on one foot before tugging himself free. “Knee hurts a little, but it’s fine-“

 

Greg stopped. His brow furrowed.

 

He huffed out a little laugh.

 

“You can talk.”

 

It was quiet for several seconds. The ceiling gave a tentative groan.

 

“Come on, really? This isn’t even the first time I’ve heard you.” Greg grinned. “It was you, wasn’t it? That thing I saw.”

 

Silence. Then:

 

_Not exactly._

A thrill rose in Greg’s chest. “Okay.” He took a steadying breath. “You got me pretty good, you know. Head injury, and I messed up my leg. I had to use a crutch for four weeks.”

Another period of silence followed.

 

_I’m sorry for that._

“Huh? Well, I sort of deserved it-“

 

_No, I went too far. I shouldn’t have-_

It was the oddest thing that Greg could tell the ghost – at this point, Greg thought he may as well accept that’s what he was dealing with - was struggling for their words.

 

_You should not have gotten hurt._

“It’s okay. I mean, it sucked, but I’m okay.” When no response followed, Greg said, “I’m kinda glad, you know? I mean, if you hadn’t - if nothing had happened“-he made a sort of all encompassing gesture-“I wouldn’t have known you were here.”

_That… is a good thing?_

 

Greg smiled.

 

“Yeah. It’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hadn't intended things to get so cute, but oh well!


	4. What's Left of Me: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg returns, and Mycroft opens up a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so late. There was plot I definitely wanted in this chapter, so I didn't want to cut it short just for the sake of time. But it's a bit longer than usual, so yeah!

After Thursday classes ended, Greg sped off on his bike for home. His father was working his EMT shift that day; he wouldn’t be home until 9pm at least. Greg quickly filled up a backpack of basic tools and supplies. Before he left, he scribbled a quick note in case his father got back first.

 

Greg arrived at Wren’s Calling at about four o’clock – his insides began to careen and flutter the moment the building came into view. Even after just three days he’d been bursting with anticipation to return. He’d had so many questions on Sunday. But after some hesitant conversation, the ghost – it still felt incredible to be using that term – fell mostly silent, as though unsure of itself. Greg didn’t quite understand why, but he’d cut things short and headed out, promising to return in a few days.

 

The ghost had seemed surprised.

****

****

**_You wish to come back?_ **

****

_“Well, yeah. I’m not exactly done cleaning, am I? And I’ve hardly learned anything about you.”_

**_Oh. I see._ **

_“…Shit. Sorry, I’m sticking my nose in it, aren’t I? Don’t even know me, after all-“_

****

**_No, no. I’m not sure I understand your interest, but… if you really wish to talk more, I wouldn’t mind._ **

****

_“Great. Oh! Crap, I’m an idiot. Never asked your name.”_

**_Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes._ **

_Greg Lestrade. Okay, Mycroft. See you later._

**_Until next time._ **

 

And now it was next time. Greg had been tempted to come back the very next day, but thought better of it. Mycroft had seemed like he needed to mull things over, and it gave Greg time to decide how to interact with not just a ghost, but what appeared to be a rather withdrawn and quiet individual. He’d never meet anyone quite like Mycroft. Greg knew his personality sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, and he didn’t want to put Mycroft off as well.

 

Don’t be too pushy, approach with patience, try not to be an insufferable prat.

 

Easy enough.

 

Probably.

 

Greg nestled his bike into the bushes hugging the side of the house and headed for the far window. Backpack first, then he tumbled in after, a bit clumsy in his eagerness. He straightened, letting the silence wash over him. Once his nerves and heart rate settled back to normal, he spoke.

 

“Mycroft? You here?”

 

There was a stirring of the air, a whisper of breath.

 

_Hello._

Greg smiled. “Hey. How’ve you been?”

 

_Fine. At least I assume so._

 

He paused.

 

_What have you brought with you?_

 

Greg lifted up his backpack and gave it a shake. “Tools mostly. I’m not the best at it, but I thought I’d give fixing that broken step a go. Maybe see if I can cover up some of the weak spots in the floors too.”

 

_Is that not a bit beyond the scope of your responsibilities? The structural weaknesses are hardly your fault._

“I know. But I want to. I told you I’d do more than just cleaning, didn’t I?”

 

_Yes, but-_

 

“And you’ll keep me company while I work, right? Sounds like a good compromise to me.”

 

When Mycroft went quiet, Greg got a little anxious – was he being too much already? Maybe that was too familiar for someone as reserved as Mycroft.

 

_I can do that. If that’s what you want._

Something almost giddy bubbled under Greg’s ribcage. “It is.”

_As you wish. I accept your offer._

 

* * *

 

Windows all clean, dust removed from as many surfaces as Greg could reach. Now he was kneeling by the kicked in bedroom door, noting how the bottom scraped against the floor as he swung it back and forth.

 

“I don’t think this’ll hang straight again without new hinges,” he said with a sigh.

 

_To be fair, they were in a rather poor state before you mangled them. Though I never had a reason to bother opening the door anyway. Also, none of the others before you were quite as determined to get through._

Greg laughed sheepishly. “I like a challenge.”

 

_Evidently. I shall have to revise my policy of allowing intruders a free hand because of you._

“Why’d you allow it in the first place? You didn’t care that strangers were coming in and mucking up your house?”

 

_Honestly, no. Time has done far more damage to this house than your companions have. It was a lovely place in its better days, but otherwise I’ve never held much sentiment for it. Besides, I would rather not draw undesirable attention to myself by raising a fuss._

 

“Fair enough.” Greg got to his feet and wiped the grim off his knees. Then he thought of something. “Why was I different?”

 

_I’m sorry?_

“Well, everyone else just walked in and out of here without you doing anything. But I got the horror movie treatment. Was it because I broke into your room? It is yours, right?”

 

_…Yes. It was. But that wasn’t the reason._

“So what then?”

 

Mycroft didn’t answer right away. A soft scraping sound came from Greg’s right. He turned his head, eyes falling upon the dresser - the photo of the brothers.

 

Greg made the connection.

 

“The picture?”

 

The unseen nod was easy to imagine.

_Yes._

Greg hesitated, then stepped closer.

 

“Can I-?“

 

_Go ahead._

 

Greg’s hand trembled as he took hold of the frame. He looked again at that scene of tranquil joy he’d visualized so many times. On closer inspection, he could now make out a small scrawl of words in the lower corner of the photo.

 

**Mycroft & Sherlock Holmes**

**Wren’s Calling Manor**

**April 20 th, 1913.**

 

 

“Sherlock?”

 

_My little brother._

 

Greg’s chest felt tight.

 

“And that’s you?”

 

_A year before I died. I was sixteen._

Greg swallowed hard.

_Your companions that came before - sometimes they would do more than just paint the windows. They defaced the portraits in the hall, torn the wallpaper, broke smaller items they came across. When you reached for that photo, I thought-_

“You thought I was gonna do the same.”

_Yes. I have… gaps in my memory. I’ve forgotten many faces and events from when I was alive, and what I do remember is just fragments. I can barely remember my own parents. But I remember Sherlock. I look at this picture and I can see him so clearly. Not just from that day, but from the moment he was born until the moment I passed from this world. It’s my one link to him. I couldn’t allow you to destroy that. He’s the only thing I haven’t lost._

Greg gently set the frame down, having trouble speaking through the heaviness in his throat.

 

“I’m sorry.”

_It’s fine. I know now you meant no harm, but at the time, well, I lost my head rather spectacularly._

“Yeah,” Greg said, huffing out a small, thick laugh. He swiped at the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes and coughed once. “Hey, can I ask something?”

 

_Of course._

 

“I saw you on the stairs, right? Before I passed out?”

_Yes._

“Is that something you can do for a long time, or does it tire you out?”

_Oh, no, I can do it as long as I like. I just forget to do so most of the time since there’s no need to show myself. I’d already frightened you so badly when you injured yourself; I wanted to present myself in the least threatening way possible to calm you._

“So, could you let me see you now?”

There was that tell-tale few seconds that meant Mycroft had been caught off-guard. Greg was getting good at recognising it.

 

“It’s just- it’s easier to talk if I can see your face. Be able to tell if I’m getting on your nerves and all that,” he added with a smile.

 

_I… suppose that’s logical. But- oh, never mind. Yes, very well._

 

Greg’s heart leapt. “Really?”

 

_Yes, yes. Just try not to be startled._

“What do you mean start- SHIT!“ Greg jerked backwards and fell on his arse when a person abruptly blinked into view directly in front of him.

 

“What the hell?!”

 

“Well I did warn you.”

 

“How was I supposed to know you were right in my face?! Go a bit slower next time!”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I don’t control how I pop in and out of visibility, Greg. Believe it or not, I have a limited understanding of the process.”

 

“Cheeky git,” Greg grumbled while getting to his feet, but his smile was so wide his cheeks nearly hurt. He let his eyes sweep over Mycroft, taking in every detail. He was taller than Greg, long legged - the auburn shades in his hair seeming even more intricate now that they were seen up close. And again those distinctive eyes, watching him in bewilderment.

 

“What?” Mycroft asked, looking a bit unsettled.

 

“Nothing.” Greg shook his head, heart full of something he couldn’t find a name for. “So, here you are.”

Something uncertain flashed across Mycroft’s face, his lips tightening together. Then, he softened, tension melting away into a small smile.

 

He nodded in agreement.

“Here I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This grew so much bigger in my head than I thought it would. I definitely want to return to these two, I do. For now, I'm going pause here because I want to move on to other stories for the collection. But this one will definitely be reposted as it's own multi-chapter standalone. Thanks!


	5. Never a Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little care and comfort for one Greg Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a classic sicky comfort fic here.

**_It is now thirty minutes past our dinner reservation. Thankfully the owner owes me several favors, but he is still rather put out. Do you have any idea as to when you’ll be arriving? M_ **

 

**Shit, Myc, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. I’m a bit dicky at the moment and I only just woke up. G**

**_Are you alright? M_ **

 

**I’m tired, but I think it’s just a cold. Probably that thing that’s been going around. Donovan had it last week. G**

**_My poor dear. Do you have everything you need? M_ **

****

**I think? I don’t know, I haven’t been out of bed all day. G**

**_Have you not eaten? M_ **

****

**I had some toast earlier. I’m not really hungry though. I just want to sleep. G**

**_Gregory, you have to do more than sleep if you want to recover in a timely manner. What about water? You should be drinking at least six to eight glasses a day when you’re ill. M_ **

****

**Seems kind of excessive. I know you’re right, but I don’t want to have to get up over and over. G**

**_Very well. I shall join you in twenty minutes. M_ **

****

**Myc, no. I’ll just sleep it off. Stay and get some dinner, okay? G**

**_A candlelit dinner for two holds little appeal without you. I prefer to see you comfortable and cared for; snot, drool, and all. M_ **

****

**All right. Thank you. G**

**And I’m not drooling. G**

* * *

Mycroft let himself into Greg’s flat with his spare key. He clicked on the hall light and hung his coat on the wall hook.

 

“Gregory?”

 

At the lack of answer, Mycroft pursed his lips. With a small huff, he headed down the hall to the last room on the left. He cracked open the door and peered inside.

 

The sliver of light fell across a formless lump buried under several comforters. Mycroft slipped in, setting the plastic bag he’d brought on the floor. Treading quietly, he made his way over to perch on the edge of the bed.

 

“Gregory?” he called again, softer this time.

 

The lump shifted, mumbling a scratchy croak.

Mycroft smiled. He reached out and peeled back a few layers of blankets until he uncovered his Detective Inspector. Greg's arms and legs were folded close to his body. He curled tighter into himself, shivering.

 

Mycroft ran a gentle hand over Greg’s side. “Wake up, dear.”

 

“Mpmf?” Greg’s eyelids fluttered open. He weakly lifted his head. “Myc? When- why’re you here?”

 

“You texted me, remember? I’m going to look after you tonight.”

“Oh.” Greg groaned, slumping onto his back. “You really shouldn’t. You’ll just get sick too.”

“Acceptable risks in this case.” Mycroft covered Greg’s forehead, frowning at the heat. “I think you have a slight fever.”

Greg leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. He shuddered again. “M’cold.”

 

Mycroft stood, tucking Greg back into his cocoon of blankets. “Do you think you could eat some food?” he asked, stroking Greg’s hair.

 

“Too tired...”

 

“Later then. I would like you to take some Paracetamol. I’ve brought along some herbal tea as well. Do you think you could manage that much?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I won’t be a moment,” Mycroft said, retrieving the plastic bag as he walked out of the room.

While the electric kettle warmed up, Mycroft texted back and forth with Anthea, shuffling meetings around to free his schedule up until at least tomorrow afternoon. Then he returned to Greg, balancing a tray containing one steaming cup of tea, a glass, several pills, and pitcher of cold water. He set it next to Greg’s night stand and knelt beside the bed.

 

“Sit up for me, Gregory.”

 

Greg grumbled but complied, coughing hoarsely.

 

“Does your throat hurt?”

 

“A little.”

 

Mycroft nodded, handing him the tea and one pill. “This should help with that.”

 

“Thanks, Myc. I’m sorry I buggered everything up.”

 

“Hush,” Mycroft soothed, squeezing his shoulder. “There’ll be other chances.”

 

Greg grimaced as he swallowed. “God, I feel sore.”

 

“Are you in pain?”

 

“Just achy. Especially my back.”

 

Mycroft considered. He got to his feet, shedding his jacket. Greg watched in silence as Mycroft went to his closet and hung up the garment.

 

“Lie on your front,” Mycroft said, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

 

“Not fair getting all sexy and half-dressed when I’m too sick to do anything about it.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Incorrigible.”

 

Greg grinned. He set aside the teacup and turned onto his stomach, quiet while Mycroft climbed on the bed. Mycroft settled himself over Greg’s waist, asking, “Is this alright?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Satisfied, Mycroft flattened his palms against Greg’s upper back and pressed down. Greg arched slightly, a moan slipping out. “Oh, fuck. Thank you.”

 

“My pleasure.” Mycroft worked slowly, rubbing circles between Greg’s shoulder blades, kneading above the hips, sliding hands up and down the length of his back.

 

Greg’s soft noises soon lengthened and relaxed into steady breathing. “I’m gonna fall asleep,” he slurred, nuzzling into his pillow.

 

“Go ahead. I’ll be here if you need me.”

 

“Alright….” Greg sighed, his eyes drifting shut. “Night Myc.”

 

“Good night, Gregory.” Mycroft traced his fingers along Greg's nape with a smile. Amusing that Greg thought a fancy dinner alone could ever compare to a moment like this. But Greg had a habit of underestimating his own worth. 

 

He'd learn, eventually. After all, Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not persistent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was nice to write. Kinda gentle fluff. I liked it!


	6. I Burn With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this is so short. I got pretty busy, and writer's block made a bit of an appearance as well.

“F-fuck… Mycroft, please…“ Greg jerked, writhing in blissful agony. “Fuck, there! Please God please, just-!”

 

The sudden increase of suction in concert with that massaging pressure sliding in a bit deeper choked off his voice. He shattered into sensation. Muscles clenched and limbs trembled. Bones dissolved into liquid.

 

One last spasm, and Greg sagged against mattress - gasping, deliciously over sensitised. He twitched as insistent hands wandered along his thighs.

 

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, soft need in the husk of his voice.

 

Greg nodded, closing his eyes. He felt Mycroft settle his weight on top of him, lining up against the crease of Greg’s thigh. He gave a slow thrust, shuddering. His little hitched moan was perfect. Greg splayed his fingers over the small of Mycroft’s back, coaxing him to roll his hips. Mycroft pushed his face against Greg’s neck, scattering warm gusts against his skin.

 

“You undo me,” Mycroft whispered, lost. “Every time. Please…”

 

Greg’s heart soared. He caught Mycroft’s mouth for a kiss, soothing him. “Let go, love. Let go.” He listened to Mycroft’s breathing quicken, held him tight as he went rigid, let him cling and swear and shake through his ordeal – coming out safe and completely spent on the other side.

 

There were more kisses; sleepy brushes of lips and tongues. Greg knew they wouldn’t make it to the bath tonight. They’d probably drop off right under the shower head. He carefully eased Mycroft onto his side and managed to wipe both of them down with his discarded undershirt.

 

“Get some sleep, Myc,” he said, dragging the comforter over them.

 

Mycroft hummed contently, intertwining their legs together. “I adore you,” he murmured, nestling close.

 

Greg smiled, fading even as he spoke. “Same here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hadn't meant to get to an M rating so quickly. Still feel like I cheated with how short this is. But it was still fun to write. Thanks!


	7. Part the Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg remembered the first time. 
> 
> He remembered the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story I wanted to write yesterday but wouldn't come out. It finally stopped evading me.

It started in the rain.

 

Statistically, London actually experienced less rain on average compared to other areas of England. But after two straight weeks of showers, drizzles, and sudden downpours, Greg had decided that statistics were full of shite.

 

It made him feel slow, weighed down. He didn’t normally take stock in rain being depressing, but even he was starting to feel somewhat melancholy. Going on crime scenes in that weather was a misery for all involved. Greg had eventually learned to carry at least two coats along so he could have a dry one to switch to. But he was starting to think that waterlogged, chilled feeling was in danger of becoming permanent.

 

Joining Mycroft for dinner on one of the particularly dreary nights was a heartening turn in all the gloom. It was technically for business, but the conversation strayed once the wine was poured. They both laughed at their lack of focus and then quickly forgot to care. Greg was in such a good mood that he even promised to let Mycroft pick up the check without a fight.

 

That's how it was with them. Their mutual distrustful tolerance now thawed into comfortable banter and quiet ease in each other’s company. It almost seemed impossible to think that it had ever been any other way.

 

Greg liked doing this. He liked dinners together. Hushed words. That feeling when Mycroft would fall quiet and study him with a kind of subdued fascination.

 

Greg thought he’d like Mycroft to do that more often.

 

They lingered well past closing time, the staff shooting them despairing glances while cleaning up around them. Finally they took pity and drifted out onto the street. Mycroft looked at Greg as he opened his umbrella, and Greg gravitated closer to his side without a word.

 

Greg fished through his coat for cigarettes while Mycroft texted his driver. He drew one out before offering them over. Mycroft scanned the packaging, frowning in mild distaste. Greg rolled his eyes and jiggled the pack at him.

Mycroft eventually relented and plucked out a cigarette. The flame of Greg’s lighter splashed a soft glow across Mycroft’s features as he leaned in. Eyelashes lowered, lips sealed around the filter. It seemed almost unfair how Mycroft managed to stay so immaculate while the rest of London was sopping wet and grey.

 

Mycroft glanced up, their eyes meeting. Greg suddenly remembered the difference between looking and staring – he lowered his head, lighting up for himself. He felt as though he’d been caught breaking some unspoken rule between them. He waited, but the obvious question never came.

 

They smoked in silence for a time, shoulder to shoulder. Greg counted seconds, trying to find a tempo in the rainfall. He chanced another glance, only to find Mycroft’s gaze still trained on him. He quickly refocused on his feet.

 

Mycroft sighed. Out of the corner of his vision, Greg saw him take one last drag and then grind his cigarette under his shoe. Greg tossed his away as well. It was only when he turned that he realised Mycroft was facing him – now much closer than was needed to keep the umbrella over both their heads.

 

Greg’s instinctual confusion gave way to something that made his heart flip as Mycroft took a decisive step forward, putting him almost chest to chest with Greg. He slid cool fingers under Greg’s chin, tilting his head up.

 

Greg couldn’t move, couldn’t find words to speak. He could see Mycroft watching – waiting for his response.

 

What happened next depended on him.

 

Tentatively, he curled an arm around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him in. He felt Mycroft’s breath catch. Greg was warmer than he had been in weeks.

 

He exhaled. Leaned in. Closed his eyes.

 

Just brushes at first, both sides uncertain, learning each other. Then, longer caresses, lips parting to allow further exploration.

 

Greg heard the umbrella clatter to the ground as Mycroft cupped hands around his face. Rain was sinking through their coats, flattening their hair. Mycroft’s suit would soon be ruined. And yet they remained, clutching and shivering, delving deep into each other’s mouths.

 

As cold as he was, Greg’s senses were preoccupied with more important things. With the taste of smoke. The scent of fading lavender and sandalwood. The light prickle of stubble over his mouth.

 

It would take the arrival of Mycroft’s car to part them. They ended up back at Greg’s flat, shedding their wet clothes and seeking the warmth of the bed and each other. And that wasn't the end of it. They settled into their new arrangement without a hitch, meeting again and again.

 

After two months, 'arrangement' was changed into 'relationship'.   

 

The heady surge of infatuation would gradually calm into steadfast commitment and love. They would have laughter, cohabitation, clashes of temper, and matching rings.

 

And kisses. Countless, countless kisses.

 

Grown and nurtured from the seed of the first.

 

From that perfect, shy kiss shared in the rain.

 

Greg would treasure it all his days. Remember Mycroft with his umbrella, remember the cigarettes. And the rain.

 

Always, he would remember the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much else to say. I gave myself the prompt of 'kissing in the rain'. Thought it was going to end up shorter, but it filled out nicely.


	8. Confusion: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday and return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: This is pretty much a direct continuation of Confusion from last year's November Mystrade. I don't think you necessarily need to read those two parts to enjoy this one, but I would recommend it.

Mycroft spends his time at home locked inside his own head. It’s actually a preferable way to spend the visit; his parents have long convinced themselves they’re engaging with him when they mostly just talk around him. He really only needs to interject a nod here or there to give the impression of a back and forth.

 

He worries at how quiet and withdrawn his little brother has become since they last saw each other. Sherlock used to write him when he first started University, but as the months went on, the letters slowly dwindled in number. The ones that do arrive strike Mycroft as rather melancholy. He tries to ask about it but Sherlock just shrugs and says letters are boring.

 

Mycroft is hurt by that, but he doesn’t press. Sherlock had been miserable when Mycroft had left to go to school. It stands to reason he must still feel abandoned. Mycroft tries to make up some of that lost time. He takes Sherlock out on walks, helps him collect vegetation and insects for study, reads to him as often as he wants. The distance between them doesn't truly fade, but giving Sherlock that attention seems to thaw him a bit.

 

Unfortunately, Mycroft makes very little headway on what to do about Greg. A week to consider the situation and he’s no closer to understanding. He knows what happened, of course. His cheeks still redden at the memory, at his complete loss of composure from a mere kiss. And they’d been out in the open as well, in full view of the quad! What could have possessed him to allow that? And why could he think of nothing but doing it again?

 

It’d been equal parts exhilarating and mortifying. He’d been unable to stop his moans, the helpless trembling. And yet Greg hadn’t seemed to mind. When he’d pulled away for breath, his sharp grin had nearly stopped Mycroft’s heart right then and there.

 

“God, look at you,” he’d murmured. He’d pressed their foreheads together, shutting his eyes. Mycroft had stayed still, unsure of what to do. They’d been so close that Mycroft could smell the soap Greg had used that day. Something about that minor detail had seared in Mycroft’s chest.

 

Greg had abruptly pulled back, startling Mycroft. Confused, he’d watched as Greg had grabbed his coat and stood. Greg had paused, giving Mycroft another frustratingly cryptic look. Then, he’d smiled and walked off across the grass, the fading sun glinting in his hair.

 

Mycroft had sat numbly by that tree for ages, though the progress of the sunset made minutes seem more likely. It’d taken the dropping temperature to finally rouse him. He’d made his way back to his room and gone straight to bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He’d found no sleep that night. The next morning he’d sluggishly packed a small bag and caught the train, only shaking out of his stupor when he’d arrived home.

 

And even now he’s not doing much better. All he sees is contradictions. Greg’s leaving so suddenly would indicate he was put off by Mycroft, but the smiles and small, intimate touches disagreed. Perhaps Greg was just getting a bit of fun out of Mycroft. But if Greg is as experienced as Mycroft imagines him to be, why is he bothering with someone as awkward as him? Greg doesn’t seem the type to be lacking in other choices.

 

What is Greg getting out of this?

 

It’s Thursday when Mycroft returns to University. Classes won’t begin again until Monday, which leaves him with a long weekend of his thoughts bouncing around uselessly in his head. He doesn’t even bother unpacking his bag when he gets back to his flat. He tosses it aside and slumps face first onto his bed with a groan. He can navigate complex math, economics, and government theory, but this is the first time thinking actually makes his brain hurt.

 

He ignores the first knocks on the door. At the second, he grumbles but still doesn’t move. When the third makes it clear he’s not going to be left alone, he sits up.

 

“Go away,” he calls out tersely.

 

More knocks follow, like someone is tapping out a pattern on his door. With a growl, Mycroft stalks over and yanks it open.

 

“Who the bloody Hell-“

 

Mycroft’s voice shuts off midway with a dry click.

 

“Ah, good. Got the right one.” Greg stands in the doorway with a pleased smile. The air seems to thicken as he speaks. “Sorry about all that banging”-his expression clearly states that he isn’t-“wanted to be sure if you were in or not.”

 

Mycroft has difficulty forming words.

 

_How are you, how have you been, it’s good to see you, you look well. Any of those would be acceptable, Mycroft. Do choose one._

 

“I am.”

 

_Oh, dammit it all._

 

“Yeah, looks that way.” Greg laughs, but the sound isn’t unkind. He pauses, his smile curving in a way that adds just a hint of heat to his expression.

 

“So. Can I come in?’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hadn't planned to do this one for November Mystrade, though I had wanted to return to it. Guess it just happened a bit sooner. This one may continue as it's own multi chapter stand alone as well.


	9. Confusion: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finally gets his explanation.

It’s the first time Mycroft laments not having more chairs in his flat. There is a couch, but somehow the idea of sharing the same seat is too intimidating for him. So he offers Greg his desk chair while he sits on the edge of his bed.

 

“Nice place,” Greg remarks as he sits. “Twice the size of my mine.”

 

“Do you live on campus as well?”

 

“Yeah, though I might go off-campus next year. Kind of want to have more space to myself.”

 

“Oh.” Mycroft looks at his hands, acutely aware of his own awkwardness. There ought to be some kind of psychological advantage to being in his own domain, shouldn’t there? Though it is the first time he’s invited someone in. Greg’s presence makes the space feel denser, somehow.

 

“You look like you want to do a runner again,” Greg says. Mycroft’s eyes snap to his face, but his expression isn’t so much teasing as it is contemplative.

 

Mycroft considers. He lifts his chin.

 

“Like you did?”

 

“Huh?” Greg looks confused.

 

Mycroft knows his cheeks are turning red but forces himself to hold Greg’s eyes. “You kissed me,” he says, almost accusatory. “Then you left.”

 

For a second Greg looks as though he’s going to protest that statement. Then, his expression turns sheepish. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Sorry, I shouldn’t have buggered off like that. Bastard thing to do.“

 

“Thankfully we’ve already established your proclivity towards that state.”

 

“You smartarse.” Greg says this as though he’s made some sort of intriguing discovery.

 

Mycroft rather likes the idea that he’s the cause of that.

 

“Tried to talk with you the next day,” Greg says, “but you weren’t in.” A touch of embarrassment crosses his face. “Actually been coming by once a day since then.”

 

“For the whole week?”

 

“I know I could have waited. You’d have been back when classes started again. But didn’t sit right with me that you might have taken things the wrong way.”                                                  

 

Mycroft’s rather shaken by the effort Greg has demonstrated on his behalf. Yet another thing about Greg he doesn’t know what to make of.

 

But Mycroft schools himself and nods. “Very well. Explain then.”

 

Greg’s mouth quirks for just a second before his expression sobers once more.

 

“Couldn’t believe you let me kiss you, you know? I was sure you were gonna tell me to get stuffed and never speak to me again.”

 

“Is that a regular occurrence?”

 

“Well, like you said, I’m bit of a bastard. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d walked up and slugged me that day.” There’s that cheeky glimmer in his eyes that sends a sliver of heat through Mycroft’s chest. “Definitely preferred the kissing to that.”

 

“And yet, you left.”

 

Greg regards Mycroft intently for a moment, in that way that both unnerves and thrills him. Greg gets to his feet, and there’s deliberateness to the action that cranks up Mycroft’s pulse. He’s rooted to the spot as Greg comes to stand in front of him, caged in by the mere force of Greg’s gaze.  

 

“Wanna know what I would have done if I’d stayed?

 

Mycroft’s insides seem to abruptly rearrange themselves. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. Greg responds anyway.

 

“I would have had you on my lap, kissing you until your mouth went numb. Then I would have gotten that collar open and seen if love bites show up as well as I think they do on that skin of yours.”

 

_Oh bloody Christ._

 

“I really like the noises you make when you’re being kissed. Makes me wonder what you sound like when someone gets more creative with you.”

 

Greg’s not saying these things. He can’t possibly be saying these words to Mycroft. It’s utter madness.

 

Mycroft hopes he never stops.

 

“Wonder how much we could have gotten away with out in the open? I’m not really into having it off in public, but it would have been fun to see just how far we could have gotten without anyone noticing.” Greg lifts a hand, trails his fingers along the side of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft makes a little stumbled gasp. His eyelids flutter. Greg’s words swirl in his head.

 

“And then, when you finally couldn’t hold out, when I had you begging for more, we’d have gone back to my flat so I could take you apart properly. Have you calling my name so many times you’d forget your own.”

 

Greg takes a hold of his chin, leans in, brushes his lips just at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

 

“Would you have let me? Would you have wanted all that too?”

 

“Yes… God, yes...”  

 

“And that’s why I didn’t.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes snap open. There’s a moment of sickening, deathly cold shock stabbing through him. Then he sees Greg’s face, kind and warm in a way he’s never seen directed at him.

 

“If that was all it was about – just having you for a good, quick one-off, I would have done it in a heartbeat. I almost did. But we kissed, and-“ Greg shudders. “God. You don’t know how long it’s been since someone kissed me like it _meant_ something.”

 

Mycroft stares at him, wide-eyed and confused. Greg carefully sits down next to him on the bed and touches his shoulder.

 

“I want you, Mycroft Holmes,” he says, running a caress up and down his arm. “Never, _ever_ , doubt that. But I think - I think you’re someone I want other things from too, if that makes any sense.” Greg looks away, shaking his head. “Sorry. I know I’m coming off really intense. You barely even know me. But I came here because I was hoping that I didn’t imagine what I felt when you kissed me. That maybe you do want what I’m talking about. And, if you did, then I thought – maybe - we could…try? Whatever pace you need, I can-“

 

“Yes.”

 

Greg stops, startled. “Yes?”

 

Mycroft takes in a deep breath. “I’m not – I don’t know what you see in me. But if you wanted, then yes. I would like to try being together.”

 

As Greg’s face gives way from disbelief, it’s like a miniature sun slowly rising. “That’s- Okay. Great. That’s great. I mean-“ he huffs out a soft laugh, his smile filling his whole face. “Um, listen. I have no clue where your head’s at, and there’s a ton we still need to talk about. But, if it’s okay, could I just – I really want to kiss you again.”

 

Mycroft’s honestly not sure how much more his heart can take. He’s nodding before his brain even registers the motion. He stiffens momentarily as arms gather him up. Then, Greg’s lips seal over his, the warmth flowing into his lungs and through his veins like liquid. He sags, weak with it. The anxious flurry in his stomach and head ebbs, stutters, and goes silent. He manages to get his hand in Greg’s hair and reels at the needy moan it produces. He doesn’t understand this strange new reality but its both the most daunting and wonderful thing he’s ever experienced.

 

“You’re shaking.”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“Should you be?”

 

“I imagine not. But I can’t say I care. Now do shut up and kiss me again.”

“Heh. Alright then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I think I can see this going farther than I thought it would. I'll be doing more outlining for it. :)


	10. It's Hard To Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whatever it is, you can tell me, okay?"

Greg woke up; a flickering of his eyelashes, a quick inhalation of breath. Cold; a chill had settled under his skin, raising shivers he wasn’t even fully conscious of. Where was the comforter? Had he kicked it off again? Damn restless legs. It didn’t help that this bloody house never seemed to warm properly during the winter months. How Mycroft could be comfortable like that was beyond-

 

Wait.

 

Greg sat upright, his sleep-addled brain taking in the empty side of the bed, the pushed aside sheets.

 

“Myc?”

 

Silence answered. Greg swept his palm over the mattress in a meaningless gesture of confusion. Just a bare trace of heat still lingered.

 

Greg swiveled his head in the direction of the en-suite. Door open, lights off; the interior presumably also empty.

 

The bedroom door, normally closed before they slept, also stood open.

 

The office and other second floor rooms yielded no sign of Mycroft either. Greg continued down the hallway, the stillness making him strangely hesitant to simply call out his boyfriend’s name. As he approached the library, he noticed one of the sliding double doors pulled to the side.

 

The temperature seemed a few degrees lower inside the room. Greg shivered, moving just inside the entrance. In the darkness, he could make out a figure standing in front of the bay windows. Carefully, Greg felt along the wall for the dimmer switch and slid it up halfway. Subdued light bloomed from the lamps and overhead chandelier. Mycroft glanced over as the lights went up, blinking in surprise. Something alarmed passed through his face and he quickly turned back to the window.

 

“Gregory.”

 

“Hey, there you are,” said Greg, crossing over to him. “What’re you doing up? You okay?”

 

“Yes, fine. Just a bit of difficulty sleeping.” Mycroft’s voice was oddly tight. “You needn’t concern yourself. I was just going to read something in here to settle myself.”

 

“And were you going to turn the lights on at some point?”

 

Silence. Mycroft cleared his throat, still angled away from Greg.

 

“I… suppose that would be conducive to my plan.”

 

Greg stepped closer and placed a tentative hand against Mycroft’s back. The already tense muscles tightened further.

 

“Hey, Myc?”

 

Mycroft was stone still, unmovable.

 

“Myc, come on. Look at me a sec.”

 

“Please go.”

 

The words, small and tired, lodged something painful in Greg’s chest. He swallowed, resisting the urge to pull Mycroft around to face him.

 

“I can if you really want. But I’m not going to feel good leaving you alone if something’s wrong.” Gently, Greg began rubbing circles between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, trying to coax that granite tension into something a little more pliable. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, okay? Doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night.”

 

Mycroft remained silent for a moment. Then, a slight tremor, and he sighed. He turned, and Greg’s insides tore at the sight of his broken expression.

 

“Oh, Myc.” Greg gathered him against his chest, relieved when he felt Mycroft return the embrace. They stood there, Greg letting Mycroft breathe and combing fingers through his hair.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m being so ridiculous-“

 

“You’re not. I promise you’re not-”

 

“I’m a grown man for heaven’s sake. I should have control of this by now.“

 

“You think you can talk to me about it? Has this been going on for a while?”

 

Mycroft dropped his head, grimacing against Greg’s shoulder. “I have a history of depression, Gregory. I can normally cope when it surfaces, but some days are much… darker for me than others.”

 

“And tonight was hard on you?”

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

“That’s alright. You didn’t need to hide it from me.”

 

“You already tolerate so many of my faults. I didn’t wish to burden you with this as well.” Mycroft held Greg tighter and sighed. “It’s such an ugly part of me.”

 

“Myc, no.“ Greg pulled back enough to look in Mycroft’s eyes. “Brains can be bastards. Doesn’t mean there’s anything ugly or off about you.” He kissed Mycroft softly on the cheek. “You can always come to me when you’re having a shit day. If you need time to yourself, let me know and I’ll be sure to give you some space. But if you need to talk it through, or just want me to sit and hold you, I’m here. Okay?”

 

Mycroft exhaled an unsteady breath, as though he’d been holding it in for a long, long time. He was still looking a bit worn and emotionally haggard, but his small, half-smile was an encouraging addition. “Thank you, Gregory. You don’t know what that means to me.”

 

Greg nodded, giving Mycroft one last hug. “You think you could sleep now?” he asked, noticing that Mycroft’s eyelids were starting to droop.

 

“Yes. I believe I’m feeling much calmer now.” Mycroft took Greg’s offered hand and let himself be pulled along to the door. He paused, and Greg looked back in puzzlement.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Just - I love you very much,” he whispered.

 

“I love you too.” Greg said. “Now, let’s get you to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasted way too much time on this one trying to make it one thing than another and the finally landing on this. I'm not sure how I feel about it in the end. Like, maybe there needed more build up and a longer conversation. That might be a retooling I do at some point. 
> 
> I have to try to remind myself that it's okay if these don't turn out perfect considering the speed and free forming I'm trying to do.


	11. Play By Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exercise in flirting.

It’s about two years into their association when Mycroft discovers that Greg Lestrade is attracted to him.

 

Considering how skilled Mycroft is at reading body language, it’s odd he hasn’t picked up on it sooner. Though Greg is refreshingly tasteful about it, unlike the blatant, nausea-inducing examples of “flirting” often seen in daily life. But it’s rare that this sort of attention is directed at him, and such things are easier spotted as an observer rather than the recipient.

 

The smiles are the first tip-off. Greg has a natural inclination towards the action, and he’s generous in giving them to those he’s comfortable with. However the smiles Mycroft get don’t seem to be the same as the ones Greg’s friends and colleagues receive. They’re slower to form, last longer. Sometimes Greg’s eyelids will lower just a touch, a simmer of heat appearing. It’s startling to realise that those smiles are less Greg telegraphing interest and more his unconscious reaction to Mycroft himself.

 

It’s not just the smiles that are exclusive to Mycroft. There’s an intimacy to their rapport that is glaringly absent when Greg interacts with others. He doesn’t make that low, throaty chuckle when joking with John Watson, or subtly angle his body to line up with Sherlock’s when discussing evidence. Greg’s eye contact is never more persistent than when Mycroft is talking to him.

 

There’s something masterful in the way Greg steals glances. Anyone else would be completely aware of it happening, but then few people are as perceptive Mycroft Holmes. His suits seem to be the main draw. Every time they meet, Greg can’t resist at least one sweeping gaze from collar to pants cuffs. Mycroft makes a little experiment of it and learns that the pinstripes ensembles always garner the most favorable response. It’s not hard to identify the other preferred subjects of Greg’s focus. Mycroft's hands, his legs - his arse is an unexpected if not clichéd choice, but still an admittedly flattering one.

 

And it is flattering, when he really thinks about it. Why shouldn’t it be? He’s always had a great deal of respect for Greg’s opinion. In fact, he could say he rather likes Greg in general. Good-natured, driven without the ego, and honest to a fault. It was difficult not to like Greg Lestrade.

 

Still, as enlightening as this all is, it only provides limited data at best. Just how far does this particular rabbit hole go? Perhaps expanding the parameters of his observations will yield more conclusive results.

 

So, he decides to try his own hand at this flirting business.

 

A case involving a missing government official emerges in late May. Mycroft doesn’t believe it would be necessary for his department to intervene, but he opts to make the trip to NSY and inform Greg of the possibility. Greg appreciates the courtesy, of course. He offers to walk Mycroft out, but Mycroft declines. As he turns on his heel, an intriguing thought suddenly occurs.

 

Mycroft feigns adjusting his coat and lets his umbrella fall to the ground. Rather than simply crouching down to retrieve it, Mycroft bends over, making sure to keep his legs straight. The hem of his jacket slides up over the curve of his arse, adding some extra weight to the effect. Umbrella in hand, he stands back up and casts a glance back at Greg.

 

To his credit, Greg does an impressive job of looking unaffected. But there’s no mistaking the dilated pupils, or how his lips have slightly parted. With a pleasant smile, Mycroft says “Detective Inspector” as parting remark and walks out without another word.

 

Mycroft continues in this vein, just small visual teases here and there. He adds brushes of physical contact; standing a little closer than necessary when walking together, letting their hands graze each other when being passed a pen. Never more than a suggestion of something under the surface.

 

Gradually, Greg grows a little braver. He starts chancing little touches of his own – a guiding hand on the small of Mycroft’s back when he climbs into his car, lingering pats on the back. Mycroft likes that. He revels in the easy fun of it all.

 

A month later, a business meeting of theirs occurs thirty minutes before Greg has to appear at a press conference. Greg looks fairly respectable in his new suit, but Mycroft tsk-tsks at the state of his tie. Not that Greg did a poor job, but Mycroft insists a half-windsor knot would complement better.

 

Mycroft takes his time untying and retying the knot. Greg stays quiet through the process, but Mycroft detects just the faintest of tremors each time his fingers ghost against Greg’s skin. Greg could merely be sensitive there.

 

Mycroft knows better.

 

Mycroft finishes, pulling the knot tight and centering it in the collar. He finally dares to raise his eyes. The force of Greg’s gaze nearly knocks the breath from him. It’s the first time Mycroft is fully aware of how staggeringly beautiful Greg is. He looks at Mycroft with a kind of need that’s almost painful in it’s depth.

 

And just like that, Mycroft is done with teasing.

 

Greg lets out a startled “whoa!” as Mycroft drags him forward by the lapels and kisses him with dizzying force. Greg stumbles backwards against the edge of his desk. Then, he regains equilibrium and groans “oh God. _Finally_ ,” - gripping Mycroft’s shoulders as if to leave bruises.

 

The final piece clicks into place. Mycroft suddenly sees the meaning behind why the signs of Greg’s interest were limited to just smiles and looks. Why he only attempted touching after Mycroft had done it first. Why he’s never pushed for anything.

 

Mycroft had been given all the power from the very beginning.

 

The thought of it bites hard into Mycroft’s heart. Carefully, he pushes Greg back to sit on the desk, easing the intensity down. Greg whimpers in the back of his throat as though wounded. He wraps his legs around Mycroft’s waist, clutching him closer. Mycroft hushes him, taking the kisses deeper, but slower - less frantic. He tries to communicate all the patience and desire Greg has shown him all this time. Greg eventually calms, melting into Mycroft’s arms. He breathes snatches of Mycroft’s name and Mycroft shudders at the perfection of it.

 

They’d probably have stayed that way for the rest of the afternoon if Mycroft hadn’t remembered that Greg’s press conference starts in ten minutes. Greg’s collar needs to be fixed, and Mycroft hastily redoes the tie. Sighing, Greg takes one last kiss and gently bumps their foreheads together. “Tonight?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“When?”

 

“Eight o’clock.”

 

“Good.” Then-“Thank God you finally did it.”

 

Observation complete, rabbit hole traversed. Flirting?

 

“Thank God indeed.”

 

Rousing success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much better today, even I dragged at a few points. Thanks again!


	12. Just Out Of Sight: Lost Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of unused drabble from my story "Just Out Of Sight".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a real tough time getting any story to come out today, not to mention I've been pushing myself bit too hard on top of my normal jobs. I can't stay up all night writing, since I have a job tomorrow and I really need a full nights sleep, so I pulled this up because it was written and I wanted to get something in. I'm sorry it's not a real story today.
> 
> This is a snippet I wrote that was supposed to be hooked onto the first thing I ever posted, Just Out Of Sight. But as I looked at it, it just didn't gel with what I'd written in that first chapter. There are one or two things I might be able to make use of, but as a whole the scene just doesn't really work in the plot. But I did like the writing I did, so I'd like it to be seen at least as a look at my thought process. Extremely media res and WIP, so it's doesn't really stand on it's on. The basic plot here was Greg and Mycroft were supposed to get captured (standard handcuffed to chairs in warehouse room scenario), and Greg attempts to get them out by making a deal with the thing/demon/creature haunting him.

Shadows up in a corner of the ceiling began to coil, pulsing and turning viscous. In the midst of the churning void, its body slid murkily into view.

 

Greg shuddered. “Get down here.”

 

The atmosphere around Greg shifted. When he opened his eyes, its face was inches from his own. He held firm, actually feeling a bitter sort of relief. For once, this thing wasn’t a punishment bestowed upon him for his sins in this and past lives.

 

It was his trump card.

 

Greg was already feeling the effects of its proximity. It was like a high gone completely tits up. Darkness was creeping into the corners of his vision, parts of the room going blurry and then sharpening into blinding clarity. He breathed in and tasted burning metal on his tongue. He thought he heard Mycroft shouting his name, but it was swallowed up in a dissonance of what sounded like clicking and shattering glass.

 

Through all of that, his focus had narrowed; time seeming to go in and out of sync around him. Greg squeezed his eyes shut, a last ditch effort to anchor his sanity. Couldn’t be losing his mind just yet. There were other matters that took precedence.

 

Greg opened his eyes. He inclined his head towards Mycroft. “Whatever happens, he stays safe.”

 

There was no response for a few seconds. Then it nodded.

 

Greg exhaled shakily.

 

“Go on, then.”

 

The thing’s form burst apart into a writhing cloud. Greg’s head snapped back as the miasma forced its way into his mouth and nose. He could feel it snaking throughout his body, stinging and skittering underneath his skin. He couldn’t even choke as the oxygen was driven from his lungs.

 

Greg rapidly lost control of his limbs, convulsions racking through him. His handcuffs dug into his wrists as he involuntarily strained against them. Then there was a metallic snap. The force of his arms abruptly being released toppled him off his chair. He landed on his side, folding up into a fetal position.

 

He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was strangled wheezing. It was worse than pain. All of his senses had launched into overdrive. His vision went blinding white even as he squeezed his eyes shut. Sounds had merged together into one piercing tone. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process what was happening. Any longer, and he was sure his brain was going to explode.

 

Then it stopped. Awareness slammed into him like a punch to the gut. He bolted upright, his lungs finally clawing in frantic swallows of air. His chest burned, but it quickly got easier to breathe. Dazed, he glanced around. He didn’t know if he’d been out for hours or only seconds. Mycroft was still handcuffed to his chair, staring at him with an expression he couldn’t read. It was grim, almost angry. Greg didn’t understand why.

 

“You done faffing about?”

 

Greg jerked, his head whipping towards the new voice. His eyes weren’t quite cooperating with him, but he could make out the indistinct form of a man next to the door. Greg staggered to his feet, putting himself in front of Mycroft. A few rapid blinks and his sight snapped into focus. He froze.

 

Greg Lestrade stood watching him, amusement shining in eyes that seemed a shade darker than they should be. A part of Greg’s sanity shuddered, threatening to unravel.

 

“Oh, piss right off,” he said in disbelief.

 

A broad grin stretched across the other man’s face, almost unnatural in how much of the teeth it showed.

 

“Hey now, no need to be rude.”

 

“No. Shut it.“ Greg jabbed a shaking finger in the doppelganger’s direction. “Whatever part of my head you came out of, you can go right the hell back. I am NOT cracked yet.”

 

“That’s my hello? And here I thought we’d been getting on pretty well up til now.” Fake Greg stretched out his arms in front of him in a leisurely fashion, seeming to revel in the motion. “Not bad, this. The packaging is a bit dated, but otherwise it’s a nice fit.”

 

Greg looked back his mirror image, a dim spark of realization cutting through. For his part, the man waited in silence, eyeing him expectantly.

 

“Shit. You’re that thing.”

 

“Well done, mate.” Its eyes flicked to the door and back. “Love to finally have a proper chat with you, but we’ve got better things to do, yeah?”

 

Greg shook his head, barely able to wrap his brain around what was happening. “Wait, I don’t-“

 

A blink, and the imposter was right in front of his face. “Don’t get daft on me now,” it hissed, the voice distorting like static. Greg didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly his wrist was twisting up level with his face. What he saw caused a cold knot of horror to form in his chest.

 

Amidst the raw angry marks left from breaking his cuffs, black veins crossed and fragmented across his flesh. Greg’s breathing went unsteady as he dragged the cuff of his sleeve down to his elbow. The darkness continued down his arm in a jagged network. His stomach twisted as he watched the lines pulse and shift under his skin. Greg could make an educated guess that those veins were now sprawling throughout his entire body.

 

“Oi, focus!” Greg flinched as the words snapped in his ears. The thing leaned farther into his personal space, its nose inches from Greg’s. He hadn’t been to tell before, but he realized the blackness in those pupils splintered out into the irises. “You’re on my time.”

 

Then Greg heard the approaching footsteps. He remembered the current situation. The panicked churning in his gut abruptly stilled, replaced by anticipation coiling in his limbs.

 

Right. Work now, mental break down later.

 

“That’s the way,” it said, manipulating Greg’s voice into a low rumble. “Bout to get messy in here, so let’s give you a little taste, shall we?”

 

Greg suddenly lurched forward, a sharp gasp tearing out of his throat. Something feral sizzled through his brain and down his spine. His nerves crackled with a savage euphoria. The dull pounding in his skull increased to a deafening pitch.

 

But underneath that, rising in volume, he heard the blackness in his blood singing.

 

His doppelganger was in front of him again, bending down to study his face. Its lips drew back into that contorted smile again. “Good?”

 

Greg took shuddering breath and straightened. He grinned back.

 

“Fuck yeah.”

 

He had no time for complex negotiations. Not even time to feel a modicum of disgust for what he was about to do. This would be no precise operation.

 

It would be an orbital strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's looking tougher and tougher to make it through this whole month. Unless I make the stories much shorter or figure out a way to write faster. I'll keep going as long as possible though!
> 
> In terms of getting back to Just Out Of Sight, I really do like Alt Greg here. He's such a bastard. If he doesn't fit in Just Out Of Sight, I want to keep the character for something else.


	13. Le Sens Est Le Même

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meaning is the same, however one needs to express it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some fluffiness! A little reversal songfic from last year, this time Greg's POV.

Greg loved waking up like this. Warm, content, no alarm blaring in his ear. He took in a deep breath through his nose, opening and reclosing his eyes, taking his time coming to consciousness. The sheer curtains were drawn, softening the sunlight spilling in through the windows. Greg caught the faint drone of cars in the distance and fragments of birdsong - signs of the world already underway for the day.

 

The only thing that could make things better would be if the bed weren’t quite so empty.

 

Greg wasn’t terribly concerned; if Mycroft had truly left, he would have woken Greg up to let him know. Sure enough, he found an explanatory text on his phone.

 

_Good morning, darling. I am in the home office taking care of a small work matter. After that, my day is yours. M_

 

 

Greg smiled. He set the phone back on the nightstand and gave a leisurely stretch. He’d been looking to this weekend together for a month, and so far it hadn’t disappointed. Last night’s dinner was at fantastic new Greek restaurant, complete their own private room where they could play footsie under the table without scandalising the other patrons. Greg had brought out a suit for the occasion; one he knew was a favorite of Mycroft’s, just to make things a little more special. They’d held hands, fed one another, and had otherwise been utterly soppy about it all.

 

And it’d only gotten better from there. Back to Mycroft’s flat, and straight into the bedroom. Mycroft had been in a particularly hands-on mood, stripping Greg’s clothes off with painstaking thoroughness and employing his fingers and tongue to devastating effect. Greg found himself taking much more frequently with Mycroft than he had been in his previous relationships. But then again, none of his previous lovers ever made it quite this good.

 

And Mycroft made it very, very good.

 

Greg sighed, folding his arms over his head. God but he’d been frantic by the end. Mycroft often enjoyed reducing him to begging - the barely coherent, gasping into a pillow while Greg shook and cried out for more kind of begging. Some people might find that loss of control embarrassing, but Greg loved the response it got. Not to mention Greg managed to earn a few choice vocalisations from Mycroft as well.

 

Greg finally rolled himself out of bed by ten o’clock. Shower, shave, and a quick root through his overnight bag for the green button down and jeans. He guessed that Mycroft would be close to finishing up by now, so Greg gave his hair one last tasteful muss and headed out into the hall.

 

The door to Mycroft’s office was slightly ajar. There was music playing inside, something warm and lilting with a light orchestra backing and two singers exchanging verses. And – Oh, French lyrics. Greg smiled, finding something whimsically appropriate about Mycroft listening to French music. Greg’s ear was still sharp enough that he could make out most of the words.

 

**Bluer than the blue of your eyes,**

**I don't see anything better,**

**Even the blue of the skies**

**Blonder than your golden hair,**

**One can't imagine,**

**Even the blonde of wheat**

 

As Greg got closer, he heard another voice intermingling with the other two. Greg’s brow briefly furrowed, then his eyes widened when he realised. Mycroft. Mycroft singing along, soft and easy. In French. Not that Greg was surprised Mycroft could speak French, but singing it? It was like stumbling upon some marvelous discovery. Carefully, he drew up close to the door and listened, his heart bubbling with excitement.

 

**Purer than your soft breath,**

**The wind, even in the month of August,**

**Can't be so soft**

**Stronger than my love for you,**

**The sea, even raging,**

**Doesn't come close.**

**Bluer than the blue of your eyes,**

**I don't see anything better,**

**Even the blue of the skies.**

 

Peering in, Greg saw Mycroft sitting on the edge of his desk, jacketless and iPad in hand. His laptop sat open on his desk, the music playing through the speakers. A warm spring breeze circulated in through the open window. Mycroft looked completely at ease. His eyes flicked over the tablet’s screen, unaware of Greg as he and the song continued.

 

**If one day you needed to go**

**And leave me,**

**My destiny would change suddenly**

**From everything to nothing.**

**Greyer than the grey of my life,**

**Nothing would be greyer,**

**Not even a rainy sky.**

**Blacker than the black of my heart,**

**The depths of the earth**

**Wouldn't be as-**

 

Mycroft froze, voice faltering as he noticed Greg leaning against the doorjamb. “Oh. You’re up. Um - here, I’ll-” He tapped a button on the laptop, cutting off the music.

 

“Wait, don’t stop,” Greg said, stepping inside. “It’s nice. Never gotten to hear you sing before.”

 

Mycroft pulled a face. “I‘d hardly classify that as singing, Gregory.”

 

“What? You’re mental. That was lovely.” Greg crossed over to Mycroft and took him in his arms. “You’re lovely.”

 

Mycroft glanced away. “You’re very kind,” he murmured, turning a touch pink.

 

It made Greg want to kiss him. He did.

 

Silly Myc. Still couldn’t take a compliment.

 

“What’s the song called?” Greg asked, pulling back. “It’s French, right?”

 

“Yes. ‘Plus Bleu Que Tes Yeux.’ In English it would be-”

 

“’Bluer Than Your Eyes’.”

 

Mycroft’s surprise shifted into subtle delight. “You know French.”

 

Greg grinned. “Would’ve thought you’d have that bit in your report on me.”

 

“Basic information on your family history, yes,” Mycroft said, eyes glittering. “I hadn’t known the influence extended beyond your surname.”

 

“My grand’mere was fluent. Got a lot of it from her when she lived with my family.”

 

A wondering expression stole across Mycroft’s face. “I don’t believe I’ll ever know your limits.”

 

“Learning all sorts about each other today, aren’t we?”

 

Mycroft hmmed, looking thoughtful. He turned his head and reached over for the laptop, clicking a few times. As the first notes of the song floated into the air once more, Mycroft faced Greg and offered his hand.

 

It took a second for Greg to understand. He smiled. Their fingers intertwined and Mycroft pulled him in, resting a palm against Greg’s back. They situated themselves, Greg adjusting his stance to let Mycroft lead. Then, they moved, back and forth, chest to chest as they revolved in a slow circle. The ebb and flow of the motions was effortless.

 

The song reached where Mycroft had stopped and he leaned in, voice soft against Greg’s ear.

 

**Emptier than my days without you,**

**Any abyss without end**

**Wouldn't come close.**

**Longer than my heartbreak from love,**

**Even eternity**

**Near him would be short.**

**Greyer than the grey of my life,**

**Nothing would be greyer,**

**Not even a rainy sky.**

**I know, we are wrong to think**

**About tomorrows**

**Why complicate life**

**Whilst today...**

 

“Tu me rends tellement heureux,” Greg whispered.

 

Mycroft went quiet. He pressed his cheek against Greg’s and shuddered.

 

“Je suis fou de toi.”

 

Greg could only kiss him again, his emotions too dense to speak through, his words too inadequate. They swayed, touched, and breathed through the weight of the moment. Together, arms wrapped around each other; the song finding it’s conclusion as music and singers resonated with one final swell and then fell into silence.

 

**Stronger than my love for you,**

**The sea, even raging,**

**Doesn't come close.**

**Bluer than the blue of your eyes,**

**I can't see anything but the dreams**

**That your eyes bring me...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tu me rends tellement heureux=You make me so happy
> 
> Je suis fou de toi=I am crazy about you.
> 
> Please feel free to correct me if the French is off. Google translate only does so much.
> 
> I had a massive Edith Piaf phase last Christmas. I spent hours on youtube listening to her songs, and got the super special edition CD box set with over 200 songs on it. Lots of good stuff. My favorite song is the one here, Plus Bleu Que Tes Yeux. But my favorite version of the song is the duet version with Charles Aznavour, which I believe he did after she had died (basically singing along with a recording of her. I think Nat King Cole's daughter did something similar with one of his songs.) I really love the song, and I think I could buy that Mycroft would like. Got a classy feel to it. It's on youtube, give it a listen if you can.


	14. Out In The Open: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unfortunate event reveals Greg and Mycroft's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be remiss to remember other characters exist in this show I love so much, so I wanted to grab John and Sherlock for a bit.

Mycroft jerked upright in his chair as his ringtone jolted him out of a fitful doze. He blinked blearily, chastising himself at the unseemliness of falling asleep at his desk. Then his eyebrows lifted at the sight of the caller ID. His surprise merged with a sense of apprehension, as there were few positive reasons why he should be receiving a call from this particular number. He took a second for mental fortification before tapping the phone screen and raising the phone to his ear.

 

“Rather late for a social call, brother mine.”

 

“Spare me, Mycroft. I would hardly be calling for a friendly chat with you.”

 

“My eternal disappointment. Then to what do I owe this rare occurrence to?”

 

“…It’s Lestrade.”

 

Mycroft stiffened, his chest abruptly clenching. “What has happened?”

 

Sherlock took a breath, his voice steadier than the next words should have allowed. “I think – I believe he’s had a heart attack.”

 

Ice cracked along Mycroft’s veins, everything going numb. White noise buzzed in his ears. It took him a long moment to realise Sherlock was still speaking.

 

“….oft? MYCROFT.”

 

“Yes?” He heard himself speaking, low and emotionless as though his voice wasn’t his own.

 

“We’ve taken him to Barts. He’s still in with the doctors, but he’s conscious as far as I know.” Sherlock paused, and there was something unsaid underlying his silence. “He’s asked for you.”

 

Mycroft had already gathered up his coat and umbrella, throwing open the door. “I’m on my way,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

After getting the room number from a painfully slow nurse at the front desk, Mycroft hurried through the hospital halls, his footsteps heavy against the tiles. He only had the bare presence of mind to keep himself from flat out running. Whatever raised eyebrows he did receive were quickly cowed by a single glare.

 

He pushed through a set of double doors and came to a waiting area; pale green and beige tones on the walls and light grey armchairs. John Watson glanced up as Mycroft approached, eyes widening as he saw his face. He hurried to stand. “Mycroft-“

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Resting.” John spoke quickly, apparently aware that Mycroft had no interest in anything that wasn’t pertinent data. “It was mild, so it doesn’t look like he’ll need surgery. But he’ll probably be here at least three days so they can watch him for any other problems.”

 

Mycroft sagged, relief so intense his legs went little unsteady. John suddenly grabbed his shoulder and Mycroft blinked, realising he’d swayed off balance for a second.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yes, thank you.” He sat in one of the armchairs, tightening his grip on his umbrella. “How is he? Besides the obvious?”

 

“Tired. A bit confused. Probably has some chest discomfort.” John frowned, glancing in the direction of what Mycroft assumed to be Greg’s room. “I think he’s a little scared too.”

 

Mycroft’s chest tightened. He stood, clearing his throat. “I’d like to see him.”

 

“Yeah, of course. It’s this way. Sherlock’s with him right now.”

 

Mycroft stayed close at John’s side as they walked along the corridors. Even going at a calmer pace, personnel seemed to instinctually know to clear a path for them. Every so often, Mycroft would notice John watching him out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Mind if I ask something?”

 

“Yes. But at this point you may as well.”

 

“Right.” They entered an elevator and John hit the button for the 5th floor. “So, you and Greg…?”

 

Mycroft nodded, too emotionally drained to attempt denying it. “We have been together two years now.”

 

“Hm.” John rolled the information around in his head.

 

“You think it’s strange, I suppose.”

 

“Maybe not.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John shrugged. “He hasn’t asked for us to call anyone else, Mycroft. The big reason Sherlock and I were able to keep him calm was promising that you were on your way. And – I can’t say I ever expected to see you walking in looking the way you did.” The elevator opened and John headed out to the right, beckoning Mycroft to follow. “Pretty obvious how you feel about each other. I may not understand how it happened, but no, I’m not going to call it strange.”

 

They finally stopped just before room 514. “He’s getting good care here. What he mostly needs from you is support. It can be a bit tough coming to terms with your first heart attack.”

 

Mycroft nodded, anxious to get inside. “I will look after him.”

 

Smiling faintly, John gave him a pat on the back. “I’m just going to run over to the cafeteria for some coffee. Ring me if anything happens.”

 

Mycroft watched him go, a sudden sense of trepidation gnawing in his stomach. There were probably going to be many questions before the night was through. Between that and a troubled Greg, he knew which he preferred to focus on.

 

With a steadying breath, Mycroft turned the door handle and stepped inside.


	15. Out In The Open: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a few questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another kinda short chapter, I'm sorry about that.

Greg sat propped up his bed, Sherlock sitting in a plastic chair to the side. His head turned toward the door as it opened, shadows of anxiety and exhaustion plainly visible over every inch of him. His eyes widened as he recognised Mycroft, relief breaking through the tension. He opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock turned to look as well.

 

Greg froze, some kind of realisation dawning on him. He glanced back and forth once between Mycroft and Sherlock, apprehension pooling over his features. Mycroft saw the conscious effort on Greg’s part to control the reaction.

 

“Hey,” Greg said, voice tight. He forced a strained smile. “Um, thanks, for-“ He swallowed. “Thanks for coming.”

 

No. No, this wasn’t right. Acridity burned in Mycroft’s throat at the very thought of it.

 

Mycroft walked forward, uncaring of Sherlock’s eyes on him. He let his umbrella drop and reached out, mindful of the IV and monitor wires as he wrapped Greg up in his arms. Greg stiffened; startled in a way Mycroft didn’t understand, in a way that gnawed at his heart. He pressed Greg to his chest, brushed fingers through his hair.

 

“Greg...” he whispered. “Gregory…”

 

Greg exhaled - a shaky release of air. His arms came up, cinching around Mycroft’s waist, hands shaking as they bunched into the fabric of his jacket.

 

Mycroft’s heart fragmented further.

 

_Hush, darling, hush. My darling. My dearest. Hush, it’s all right. I’m here._

 

Mycroft held him for a time, let the trembling slow and settle. Then, when Greg had quieted, he drew back, rubbing Greg’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

 

Greg smiled. Fragile, but genuine. “Better.” He glanced around the room, pulling a face. “Wishing I didn’t have to be here at all.”

 

“I know. If it helps matters, I don’t intend to leave your side until you are released to my care.”

 

“But-“ Greg frowned. “What about work?”

 

“Work is inconsequential. You are not.” Mycroft stroked gentle fingers against Greg’s cheek, smiling. “I’m quite capable of handling most issues from a computer, and Anthea can manage whatever else might arise. Your well-being is my main concern. If my being here eases your mind, then this is where I stay.”

 

Greg huffed out a breathy laugh. He leaned into Mycroft’s touch, closing his eyes. “You’re gonna hate sleeping on a hospital cot.”

 

“Perhaps I’ll make some calls; have you moved to my private clinic. I understand the accommodations there are quite stellar.”

 

“Cheeky…”

 

“Hm.” Greg and Mycroft looked over to see Sherlock watching them intently, fingers steepled against his lips. “How altruistic of you.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed while Greg’s expression turned a little sheepish. With a sigh, Mycroft pulled away, asking, “Would you be all right if I stepped out briefly?”

 

“Sure. Go ahead.”

 

“I’ll only be a moment,” he said, kissing the top of Greg’s head. He glanced at his brother. “A word, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet. Mycroft gave Greg one last soft look over his shoulder before exiting the room.

 

“Well,” Sherlock drawled as Mycroft shut the door behind them, “today has been rather illuminating, hasn’t it?”

 

Mycroft stood silent, hand still on the door handle. He took a breath.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Thank you?”

 

Mycroft turned to face him. “I am relieved that Greg was with you and John tonight. The idea that he might have been alone when-“ Mycroft’s voice caught. He looked away, clearing his throat. “Thank God he was not.”

 

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. “So you are together.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you did not wish for me to know.”

 

Mycroft winced. “It was not just you. Very few people know about us. Though... yes, I was reticent about you finding out.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because of how close you are to Greg. He has been a significant part of your life. And I know you prefer me not to be. I worried my relationship with Greg would alienate you from him.”

 

A few seconds of silence. Sherlock crossed his arms, something unreadable processing behind his gaze.

 

“How serious?”

 

He wasn’t asking, not really. He’d already extrapolated the truth for himself. He just wanted to hear Mycroft say it. It added finality to his deduction.

 

Frankly there was really no reason anymore not to oblige him.

 

“I love him, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part tomorrow I think will finish this up. Kind of a different sort of ditty, but I wanted to move away from the purely lovely dovey stuff for a change of pace.


	16. Out In the Open: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of awkward understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy work day today, so this one is short too. Plus Sherlock's dialogue fought me a bit. XD

Sherlock’s brow line lifted, eyes widening just a fraction. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Mycroft to be quite that direct. He searched Mycroft’s face, considering.

 

“I was under the impression `caring is not an advantage`.”

 

Mycroft harrumphed. “It is not. It is distracting and foolish and potentially compromising for us both. And yet I fear it is becoming my most egregious failing.” He cast a weary glance at Sherlock. “But then you were already proof of that.”

 

Sherlock’s expression was clinical, but the slightly tensed mouth and lack of an immediate response were telling.

 

He looked away, scoffing quietly.

 

“Lord, but this is maudlin.”

 

Mycroft kept his own eyes on the far wall. “Apologies. An unfortunate symptom of sentiment, I suppose.”

 

They fell quiet, both needing a moment as the history between them became a bit too present for comfort.

 

“You’re not wrong, you know.”

 

Mycroft glanced over. “About?”

 

“I’ll admit I felt certain… exclusivity when it came to Lestrade. I imagine that even two, three years ago the idea of you and Greg would not have sat well with me.” Sherlock shifted his weight, opting to observe two nurses conversing down the hall as opposed to his brother. “But now I believe I am fine with it.”

 

Mycroft straightened, surprised. “Truly?”

 

Sherlock nodded, not looking at Mycroft. His posture and retreating expression made it clear he wasn’t going to expand on his reasoning. But Mycroft chanced one last question.

 

“May I ask what changed?”

 

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Sherlock’s attention. Mycroft turned his head to see John heading down the hall towards them, disposable cup in hand. Sherlock’s expression softened.

 

“I suppose I did.”

 

“Hey,” John said when he reached them. “Greg okay?”

 

“Fine. Lestrade’s mood is much improved now that Mycroft is here.”

 

“Well, that’s just what he needs.” John looked between brothers, uncertainty surfacing. “You two good?”

 

Sherlock’s gaze flicked to Mycroft. “Just getting up to speed on a few matters.” He abruptly turned to John, eyeing his cup. “Where's mine?”

 

“Huh? Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you wanted one.”

 

“I do.” Sherlock took John’s arm and began pulling him in the same direction he’d just arrived from. “Come along. I believe I’m owed a break by this point.” Amidst the puzzled protests, Sherlock glanced back, inclining his head towards Greg’s door before they disappeared around the corner.

 

It didn’t take a Holmes to understand the meaning behind the gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, actually implied some Johnlock here. At some point I may try my hand at writing a little, but my heart belongs first and foremost to Mystrade.


	17. Out In the Open: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are more unseen issues to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part for this. Not a bad little run, but I'm interested for something new tomorrow.

Apprehension was once again apparent through Greg’s fatigue when Mycroft reentered the room. “How’d it go?” he asked, tentative.

 

“Rather well, actually.”

 

Disbelief surfaced. “Serious?”

 

“Yes, he-“ Mycroft shook his head, still a bit incredulous. “I believe he gave us his blessing.”

 

Greg sank against his pillow, making a little `huh` sound. “Really didn’t see that coming,” he mused. His jaw tightened. “Sorry. I know you weren’t ready for Sherlock to know, and I just-“ He trailed off.

 

Mycroft frowned. “You needn’t feel guilty for that. We had planned to tell him eventually. This is merely somewhat ahead of schedule.”

 

“I made a fuss over nothing…”

 

Mycroft stared at Greg, aghast. “Gregory, why are you – Good God, it wasn’t _nothing_. You’re allowed to need me during a traumatic experience. I would think that this falls within that category.”

 

The reassurance seemed to have the opposite effect Mycroft was hoping for. He watched Greg’s posture deflate further, as though an invisible weight was pressing on his shoulders. “Yeah,” Greg said, subdued. “I guess I should be taking this more seriously.”

 

Mycroft’s brows knit together. Wordlessly, he pulled the plastic chair up along Greg’s bedside and sat.

 

“Is it easier not to?”

 

There was no response for a few seconds. Then Greg gave a stiff nod, fingers curling into fists. Mycroft slipped his hand over one, gently running his thumb over Greg’s knuckles.

 

“I imagine that’s a perfectly normal reaction.”

 

And there it was - something cracking behind Greg’s eyes, rippling out through his midsection, struggling to break free from the depths of his throat.

 

“Myc?” Greg whispered, the barest release of sound.

 

“Yes?”

 

A swallow. A shiver. “I think I need a hug.”

 

Mycroft was up, carefully sliding himself onto the bed. He enfolded Greg in his arms, letting him burrow in against his chest. “However you need me,” he murmured, caressing Greg’s back with steady, open palm strokes, “I am here. All you need is to ask.”

 

“It hurt, Myc.”

 

A fracture went through Mycroft, thick and aching.

 

“Wasn’t just my chest. It was my arms and face too. I couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t do _anything_ about it. I thought-” Tears were at the edge of Greg’s voice, only just held in check. “I really thought I was going to die. I was going to die and never see you again. And all I could think was `please, just a little longer. Just give me a little longer so I can see him one more time. I need to tell him one more time.’”

 

Mycroft’s lungs constricted with each pass of air. “Tell me what?” he managed, his voice clenched as he pressed kisses against Greg’s temple.

 

“Tell you – tell you how much I love you.”

 

Mycroft breathed out a little laugh. He nudged Greg’s chin up so their eyes could meet, smiling through the bittersweet sting of emotion.

 

“That, my darling, was never in question. I know it all too well.”

 

They lie there, Mycroft giving gentle kisses and touches as Greg shuddered within the cocoon of their embrace. He answered every `I love you` in kind, eased away the fear with `I have you, I won’t leave you`. Even after Greg drifted to sleep he remained, drawing fingers through Greg’s hair, whispering calm and assurance.

 

Reality would be seen to in due time. But for now, Mycroft would keep it at bay; give Greg time to find his equilibrium once again. To heal in every way that was needed.

 

_My love, my heart, my own. I am here. So rest easy._

 

_You are safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably give this one a repost, since I think all the chapters will fit just fine together into one little fic. I'll have to see how I feel on it.


	18. Points Of Contact: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Join me?”
> 
> “But - dinner-”
> 
> “It’s not going anywhere. Want you in here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt here was Mycroft joins Greg for shower. Can probably guess how that will go. XD

Greg had spent the last six hours feeling like he’d been stewing in a sauna. The recent heat wave had been going on for a good week now. It’d been fine as long as he could stay indoors at NSY doing paperwork. But that day he’d been stuck outside in sweltering temperatures, unable to do much to ease his discomfort besides removing his jacket and opening his collar. His clothes were soaked with perspiration, and he was doing his best not to think about how he must smell by then.

 

He was trying to find a way to settle into his car seat without leaving a damp outline when his phone pinged at him. He glanced at it and smiled at the message.

 

 

**_It seems I am available sooner than I thought tonight. Shall I come over whenever I am finished here? M_ **

**Fine with me. We can start dinner early if you want. I just need to hop in the shower first when I get home. Feel like I’ve been swimming in my own sweat all day. G**

 

**_It has been miserable, hasn’t it? I will admit I’ve made more of a concentrated effort to remain in the office this week. Especially since that last venture into extended sunlight turned out so poorly for me. M_ **

****

**Yeah, but you seemed to enjoy having me rub Aloe Vera on your burns. So it wasn’t all bad. :) G**

**_Your attentiveness to my arse was rather pleasant. M_ **

****

**Can you blame me? Sounds you were making were criminal. G**

**_Lord, enough. I can’t have you tempting me into indecency right now. There’ll be time for that later. M_ **

****

**Yeah there will be. All right, finish ruling the world and I’ll see you soon. Just let yourself in when you get to my flat. G**

**_Gregory, please. I `manage`, at most. Until later. M_ **

 

* * *

The gust of air conditioning hitting Greg as he entered his flat was a blessed relief. He groaned, wrenching off his tie and tossing it to the floor. He had enough propriety to at least sling his jacket over one of the armchairs, but once in his bedroom the rest of his clothes were unceremoniously flung onto the carpet. Greg was naked before he even reached his bathroom.

 

He turned the shower on cold and stepped in, standing under the spray with his hands braced against the linoleum. After a few minutes he started shivering, but he still didn’t move, enjoying the feeling of washing away all that sweat and heat.

 

The sound of footsteps momentarily startled him. Then he heard, “Gregory?”

 

Greg relaxed again. “You got here fast,” he called out. “I’ll be out in a bit. Wine’s in the fridge if you want to open it.” Straightening, he increased the water temperature so he could actually go about washing for real.

 

There was a knock on the shower door. Greg turned, able to make out the hazy form of Mycroft through the translucent glass.

 

“Yeah?” Greg asked, sliding the door open. “What is it?”

 

Mycroft didn’t answer for a long moment, his focus wandering to the trails of waters gliding down Greg’s skin. Then his eyes lifted to Greg’s, mouth setting in one of those soft, enigmatic smiles.  

 

“Hello.”

 

Greg raised an eyebrow, his own smile forming. “Hi.” He recognised this mood; that quiet suggestion of interest. Mycroft had grown bolder during the course of their relationship, gradually finding his footing with playful flirting and intimacy. But he was still reserved in many ways - often hesitant to readily voice his need for Greg, as though he might go about it wrong and ruin things before they began.

 

Sometimes he forgot just how badly Greg wanted him as well.

 

Carefully, so as to not ruin Mycroft’s jacket, Greg curled wet fingers along the back of Mycroft’s neck, drawing his lips close. He kept his touch light, teasing - stirring that flicker of desire to burn a little hotter. Mycroft’s hand twitched restlessly against his chest as he took shivers of breath through his nose.

 

“Join me?” Greg asked, catching Mycroft’s bottom lip with a gentle nip.

 

A pinched off moan. “But - dinner-”

 

“It’s not going anywhere. Want you in here.”

 

“Oh.” Mycroft sighed, thought shrinking away. “Yes. All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split into two because trying to write everything would have me up until 7am again, and it's a case of really needing sleep again.


	19. Points of Contact: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg smiled, sliding a hand down Mycroft’s arm to thread their fingers together. He climbed back into the shower and with a gentle tug, pulled Mycroft in after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thar be shower smut here! Seriously, that's pretty much all this chapter is.

Undressing came first. Button by button, piece by piece. Skimming palms along lapels, the satiny back of Mycroft’s waistcoat, and high-end shirt cotton. Greg liked when he could do this slow, careful. Knowing without a doubt that there was nothing between them physically or emotionally. He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s forehead, cheek, jawline, making a path downwards as clothes gave way to bare skin.

 

Mycroft was visibly hard by the time his trousers and pants pooled to the floor. Stepping free, he lifted his eyes to Greg’s and waited, minute tremors in his breathing. Greg smiled, sliding a hand down Mycroft’s arm to thread their fingers together. He climbed back into the shower and with a gentle tug, pulled Mycroft in after him.

 

They stood for a while, letting water and their hands make exploratory trails along each other’s bodies. Mycroft took the shampoo and looked to Greg, asking, “May I?”

 

Greg nodded, lowering his head so Mycroft could work the liquid against his scalp. A scratchy little hmm susurrated from his throat. He loved Mycroft’s hands on his head, loved soft pets and massages against his temples. There had been many a night that found them curled on the couch or in bed, Greg lulled to sleep by gentle fingers stroking through his hair.

 

It seemed that Mycroft got just as much out of it as Greg did.

 

Mycroft took to washing Greg with intense focus; foregoing the sponge and using his own hands to apply the body wash. He directed Greg to face away from him with a light nudge, passing his palms over Greg’s chest, his neck, down his back and lower still. Greg stifled a giggle as Mycroft slipped his hands over the globes of his arse.

 

“Getting distracted, Mr. Holmes?” He transitioned into a sudden yelp as Mycroft gave a hard squeeze.

 

“Dear me,” Mycroft said coyly, snaking an arm around Greg’s torso and drawing them together back-to-chest. “Was that too hard? My apologies.”

 

Greg laughed breathlessly. “Bastard. You’re not sorry at al- _ohhhh_ _fuck_ …"

 

Mycroft’s fingers curled around his length, slick with suds. “What about this?” he whispered in Greg’s ear, a warm flash of tongue on the lobe. “Better?”

 

Greg’s head fell back, hips rising with the first slow pull. “Y-yeah. That’s-“ Mycroft’s thumb swiped over his tip and he arched, expelling all his air in one go.

 

Greg devolved into single syllables as Mycroft stroked. There was enough soap and water to make up for the lack of lube - that extra bit of friction adding a delicious edge to the sensation. Mycroft mouthed at his neck, rolled the nub of Greg’s nipple between the fore and middle finger of his free hand. Greg bucked and moaned, pleasure sizzling under his skin.

 

Greg’s breathing quickened, his head grinding back weakly on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Myc, Myc…” he whimpered, both as a warning and a plea.

 

Mycroft’s grip suddenly tightened just a bit more, the pace increasing just a bit more, everything happening just a bit _more_.

 

Greg stiffened, a deep groan torn from his throat as he came in a long, shuddering wave. He writhed, panted, and twitched with it. Mycroft held him stable, his hand easing out the final aftershocks before he left off and carefully turned Greg back around.

 

Greg wrapped trembling arms around Mycroft and clumsily kissed him. “You now,” he murmured, feeling almost tipsy. He shuffled them both backwards until Mycroft bumped against the wall. Then he went down on unsteady legs, leaned forward, and took Mycroft into his mouth.

 

Mycroft’s hands seized onto Greg’s shoulders, his eyes slamming shut and his head thudding back against the tile. The immediate string of vocalisations meant that he was already close, as did the flush of pink blossoming out from his upper chest to neck. Bracing him in place, Greg reached up, rubbing firmly just under Mycroft’s bollocks right as he swallowed hard around him.

 

The response was spectacular. Splashes of bitterness, Mycroft pulsing against Greg’s tongue. Mycroft’s voice rose in a desperate, wavering cry, thighs shaking and hips jerking under Greg’s hands. It looked as though he might be in danger of his legs giving out, but he managed to stay upright as Greg gave a few parting licks before staggering to his own feet.

 

“Bloody Christ,” Mycroft breathed, pliant as he was pulled into Greg’s arms.

 

“Best shower I’ve ever had,” Greg agreed with a chuckle. They shared a lazy kiss, swaying together in a languid haze.

 

The hot water chose that moment to go frigid, effectively dampening their afterglow. After Greg scrambled to shut off the stream, they stumbled shivering and grumbling out of the shower. Greg retrieved towels and folded Mycroft up in one.

 

“Sorry. You didn’t even get your chance to wash up.”

 

“Partially my own fault for dawdling. Regardless, I still feel rather refreshed.”

 

Greg grinned. “How about this: we get dressed in something comfy, make dinner, and watch something daft while cuddling. Then once the water’s back up, we hop back in here again so we can get you cleaned up proper.”

 

Mycroft’s smile, while subtler, more than equaled Greg’s enthusiasm.

 

“I fear for the state of your water bill at this rate.”

 

“Worth the expenditure, I’d say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I quite crossed into E territory here. I think I'm right on the line? Not sure. Well, hope you all like, anyway!


	20. Working Through The Conventions: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating isn't really Mycroft's area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair amount of established Mycroft in this collection. Felt like going back a bit, writing something a bit before the relationship proper.

Mycroft arrived fifteen minutes until seven. Early, but not overly so. Just as he preferred. Not just early, but apparently the first one as well, which he had been deliberately aiming for. He was well aware of the psychological advantage in being there before someone else. It gave one time to become comfortable with their environment, to calm one’s nerves. Not to say he was nervous, but he would admit to feeling slightly out of his depth.

 

It had been a good ten years since he’d been on a proper date.

 

It’d been even longer since there’d been someone worth accepting a date from.

 

He eyed the restaurant warily, annoyed had how ill prepared he felt. It looked pleasant enough. The establishment was moderately sized, intimate. The décor was tastefully casual with soft lighting for the tables outside and wood paneling and red accents inside. He could see the obvious thought that had gone into choosing this place. It was a perfect compromise between upscale and informal dining.

 

There were still a few minutes to wait, thankfully. Just the time he needed to settle himself. Fortify his composure and -

 

“Mycroft! There you are!”

 

Or not.

 

Greg walked over from the restaurant entrance, all smiles and congeniality. It took a moment to realise that Greg was out of his normal work clothes, something Mycroft had not seen before. And he looked… quite good, actually. Not that he would categorise Greg as hard on the eyes, but this was a definite shift from the often grouchy, hard-nosed detective inspector. A charcoal sweater vest over a delicately striped dress shirt, the hint of a green tie underneath. Dark blue jeans and derbys down below. Greg's eyes shone a little brighter, his face missing a few years. Mycroft envied the ease in his demeanor.

 

“Hey,” Greg said, clasping Mycroft’s hand for a quick shake. “Saw you from the window. Why didn’t you come in?”

 

“I-“ Blast, had it looked as though he’d been hovering? Hovering implied hesitation; that he didn’t wish to be here. Despite his misgivings, he had no wish for Greg to think that and – damn it all, only two more seconds before his silence would seem odd. Must make excuse, now!

 

“I didn’t know you were already here. I thought I should wait out front. Simpler to spot each other that way.”

 

“Ah, right. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

 

Minor awkwardness averted.

 

“Just a minute or so. When did you arrive?”

 

“About half an hour ago.” At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, Greg smiled a little sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure if the traffic would cooperate so I left around six. Didn’t want to be late when I’m the one who asked you out.” He turned, inclining his head towards the door. “Shall we? Table’s all ready for us.”

 

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft followed Greg inside, mildly comforted that not all of his social ineptness was plain to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work schedule being what it is, I'm really going to have to pace myself if I'm going to make it all the way. I wish I had the time I did last year to crank out at least a 1000 words a day a story, but that only works this time around if I forgo sleep, and that's not really be working out well for me. Certainly doesn't help my writing either.


	21. Working Through The Conventions: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gaze lifted to find Greg watching him intently, brown eyes tinted darker in the low light. Embers sparked to life amidst Mycroft’s jittering nerves as they stared at each other.

Greg had booked them one of the tables separated away from the busier parts of the restaurant. It was a location Mycroft would have normally preferred, which made him wonder if that was the reason Greg had chosen it. He hesitated when reaching for the wine list. Would that seem presumptuous? He was the invitee in this situation; perhaps it was more polite to let Greg choose their wine. That internal quandary solved itself when Greg passed the list over without a word. Mycroft made a quick scan, pleasantly impressed by the selection.

 

“This is quite nice,” Mycroft said after picking a bottle. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this place before.”

 

“It’s a bit under the radar, apparently. But it has a great reputation.” Greg glanced up from his menu, smiling. “I was really hoping that you’d like it here.”

 

Mycroft felt a disconcerting flutter down in his midsection. It was a milder version of what had happened when Greg had first proposed this outing. With a nod, he turned his eyes to his own menu and focused on maintaining as neutral an expression as possible.

 

They split a starter of caponata between them, along with a platter of assorted cheeses. For main courses, Mycroft ordered the swordfish while Greg went with a seafood pasta. Mycroft had some trouble easing into conversation, though Greg was more than capable of picking up the slack. A little wine went a long way in relaxing Mycroft, though the genuine warmth of Greg’s company seemed the more likely cause.

 

“I’ve not had a good Marsala in some time,” Mycroft said, letting Greg pour him a second glass.

 

“Truthfully I’ve never had it outside of cooking. Should have tried it this way sooner.”

 

"There’s been a resurgence of interest for the higher-grade vintages in the past few years. Deservedly so. Good on its own or with food, and lasts a good while. Even an expensive bottle ends up being well worth the money.”

 

Mycroft paused as he noticed the small smile on Greg’s face. “What is it?” he asked, uncertainty prickling up his neck.

 

“Sorry, just-“ Greg shook his head, amused, “You always seem to know something about everything.”

 

Again, that feeling like a hummingbird was hovering inside his ribcage. Strange how such a mild compliment could affect him so strongly. Thankfully the arrival of their food saved him from having to think on it right then.

 

The swordfish was perfect, cooked with just the right amount of seasoning to enhance the natural flavors. Greg tucked into his own meal with gusto, and Mycroft couldn’t help but appreciate the simple pleasure he got from it. Dessert was a cannoli with a chocolate ganache drizzled on top. Sharing the portion with Greg made Mycroft feel less guilty about his lapse in self-discipline.

 

It was decadent, as he would have expected from the quality of the rest of the meal. He gave a quiet sigh of contentment on the final bite; savoring the sweet, creamy texture and the slight bitterness of the chocolate. Mycroft didn’t normally indulge like this, and for good reason. Eating here on a regular basis would be devastating to his waistline.

 

His gaze lifted to find Greg watching him intently, brown eyes tinted darker in the low light. Embers sparked to life amidst Mycroft’s jittering nerves as they stared at each other. He felt his poise slip and crack. He had to look away, knowing the ignition of heat under his cheeks was visible for all to see and unable to do a damn thing about it.

 

Greg had immediately taken the check when the waiter set it between them, and Mycroft was too preoccupied trying to regain his self-control to protest. They stood, retrieved their coats, and exited into the open air in silence. Mycroft focused his attention on a point off in the distance, thoroughly flustered and uncertain of what came next.

 

“Hey.”

 

Mycroft finally made eye contact again, apprehensive of what he’d see on Greg’s face.

 

“It isn’t that late yet,” Greg said. He smiled, soft, and gestured down the street. “Want to walk for a bit?”

 

Walk? Why a walk? Wasn’t Greg going to say something about what had just happened, ask what it meant? Was he just being considerate? It would make sense; he’d been nothing but thoughtful and engaging the whole dinner.

 

It’d been lovely time, if Mycroft was honest.

 

And it was a rather picturesque evening.

 

Perhaps… perhaps a walk would be nice.

 

Mycroft nodded, drawing himself up a little taller.

 

“Very well.”


	22. Working Through The Conventions: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk, music, and a bit more alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So late with this, I apologize. Thanksgiving and all that. Happy turkey day, BTW!

The temperate night air had brought out a fair amount of foot traffic to the local shops and eateries. Greg and Mycroft walked side-by-side, occasionally brushing shoulders to move out of the way of others. There didn’t seem to be any expectation to resume chitchatting, which Mycroft was rather appreciative of. The silence didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he’d been dreading after his embarrassing display. Greg seemed content just to be in Mycroft’s proximity, talking or not.

 

Some public event was being held in the park across the street – most likely the reason for the evening crowd. Fairy lights were strung amongst the trees, strains of music melded against the murmur of voices as people milled along the grassy paths.

 

Mycroft noticed Greg’s gaze kept wandering over in the direction of the activity. He was actually a bit curious himself.

 

“Shall we go see?” he asked.

 

Greg looked aside at him, a little half-grin appearing. He nodded.

 

A temporary stage holding about a dozen or so musicians had been set up in the center of the park. Blankets and folding chairs fanned out over the grass, with many onlookers picnicking as they watched the performance. There were a few stands specially set up serving various street foods.

 

“Can I get you a glass?” Greg asked, gesturing at one booth offering wine and champagne.

 

“You’ve already paid for dinner.”

 

Greg shrugged. “May as well finish out the night, then.”

 

Mycroft deliberated. He was already two glasses in, but he didn’t think one more would affect him too much. “Something a bit less dry if they have it,” he said, relenting.

 

Champagne in hand, they found a small bench on the outskirts of the concert area. There they sat, a hand’s width of space between them as they nursed their drinks and listened. The band finished with a Vivaldi piece and quickly transitioned into a new arrangement. Mycroft was impressed with the players’ skills. The notes flowed, the interpretation stirring without being overpowering. He leaned back, his thoughts drifting with the flow of the music.

 

“What’s it called?” Greg asked.

 

Mycroft was confused for a moment before realising he’d been unconsciously humming along to the tune. Curious. When was the last time he’d done that?

 

“Trio for Strings in A-flat major, Andante.”

 

“Mouthful, that.”

 

Mycroft huffed a breath of laughter, pleasantly surprised at the effortlessness of the reaction. Then, since Greg had expressed appreciation for it earlier, Mycroft expounded, “It’s a rather standard naming technique for older music, though I hesitate to call it a `name`. It’s more a description of technical aspects of the composition; the main instrument featured, the key of the song, the tempo, etc.”

 

As Mycroft spoke, Greg turned more in his direction, clearly absorbed in what was being said. A little flicker of warmth expanded in his chest. Normally when he talked like this he either bored or put off other people. That Greg was listening both willingly and with genuine interest was gratifying in a way Mycroft didn’t quite understand. It made him feel safe. More honest.

 

He was the closest to happy that he’d been in a long time.

 

Lord, how soppy. Maybe he had drunk one too many.

 

Although…

 

Carefully, he looked at Greg, let himself consider those things that had led him to accepting this date in the first place.

 

There might not be a better time to test his own limits.

 

“Thank you for tonight, Greg. Truly. It’s been lovely. Oh damn, I mean-“ Was that too much? Oh, never mind, too late now. Just go with it. “You were lovely.”

 

Greg’s eyes widened – a deeper and darker shade than one would notice at first glance - his smile starting there, bringing with it that little scruff of boyishness that hadn’t been lost with maturity. “Thanks. I really enjoyed this, you know?” He glanced down, eyelashes lowering. “Glad I finally got the nerve to ask you.”

 

This time, Mycroft seized upon that skittery feeling that arose with his blush, isolating it and turning it over in his mind. Anxiousness, yes, that was there. But it was more… anticipatory than distressing. The thrill of something not yet fully formed, but with undeniable potential.

 

He liked the feeling. He wanted to push towards it, see how far it went.

 

He moved, angling himself until their knees bumped. It drew Greg’s eyes back to his, the split second of puzzlement morphing into something more breathless. Mycroft’s unspoken question was mirrored back to him. Wordlessly, Greg took their champagne and set it on the ground.

 

They shifted naturally, upper bodies aligning, Greg’s hand coming to rest on his forearm. The first kiss was brief; just momentary contact and retreat as they acclimated and assessed. Then, their lips held together longer and longer, tongues shyly tracing and learning each other. Greg’s arms curled up behind his shoulders, pulling him in. Mycroft felt his foot hit the glasses, toppling them over.

 

“Greg, the drinks…“

 

“S’fine,” Greg murmured, “put it on your tab for next time.”

 

_Next time._

 

Yes, that was fair, wasn’t it? Not just for the champagne. There was that French bistro Mycroft was fond of; perhaps they could go there. He could take the car for himself, pick Greg up from work. He was well acquainted with the restaurant owner; he could see about securing that private patio they usually reserved for special parties.

 

Drinks, though. Drinks would be back at Mycroft’s flat, just the two of them. He had a superb Australian whiskey he’d been holding onto. Greg would love it. And after - well…

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, coaxing Greg to tilt his head back more.

 

Greg moaned.

 

Mycroft’s blood sang with alcohol and desire.

 

Yes. Next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of struggling, but really liked how this turned out in the end!


	23. Auditory: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t be there in person to take care of you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you unwind a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curse Thanksgiving time taking away from my writing! Nah, it was a nice holiday. But I am a bit behind now. But I've come up with a quick dialogue-only two-parter that ought to give me some leeway today and tomorrow.

_Call Start - 20:17_

“Lestrade speaking.”

 

“Hello, Gregory.”

 

“Myc, hey. Wasn’t expecting you to call. Getting late there, isn’t it?”

 

“Close to midnight. I got in about an hour ago.”

 

“You sound bushed. Long day?”

 

“Extremely. Back to back meetings. Followed by dinner and copious amounts of alcohol.”

 

“Little pissed?”

 

“No more than necessary. Social drinking goes a long way in fostering trust in potential allies. I might have put on a bit of a show to that effect.”

 

“Heh, wish I could have seen that.”

 

“Really?”

 

“You going toe to toe with a bunch of stuffy suits over drinks? Nothing like watching you put one over on posh gits who think they know your limits.”

 

“That does give a much more entertaining spin to the proceedings. God, but I do miss you. This trip has been exceedingly tedious.”

 

“I miss you too. Just four more days to get through, all right? How ‘bout I come pick you up from the airport? We can go straight to mine, order takeaway, spend the weekend just faffing about together.”

 

“That would be perfect – Ah, my apologies, let me put you on speaker-”

 

“What’s that? That water?”

 

“Yes. The bath’s gone a bit cold. I’m just refilling it.”

 

“You’re in the bath?”

 

“Mmhm. My attempt to relax after the evening’s nonsense.”

 

“Is it working?”

 

“Marginally. I’m still rather restless.”

 

“Sorry, Myc. Wish I could be there, hold you for a while.”

 

“As do I. But I’m glad just to be able to hear your voice.”

 

“Do you… maybe want something more than that?”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“I can’t be there in person to take care of you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you unwind a bit.”

 

“…Oh! Oh, you mean-“

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Interesting. I can’t say I’ve ever tried phone sex before.”

 

“Then I’m your first?”

 

“The first I’ve considered it with. How would it work?”

 

“However you’d like. You could give me some instructions and listen to me have a bit of fun, or I could do the same for you. I could do a little dirty talk while you get off. Lots of things we could try.”

 

“…..”

 

“It’s okay if you’re not up for it. I can just stay on the phone, talk with you until you fall asleep.”

 

“Actually, I believe I would like to try your idea.”

 

“Okay. You gonna stay in the bath for this?”

 

“No, I’ll move to the bed. Could you give me a moment to dry off?”

 

“Go ahead. I’m gonna go to my room too.”

 

"I'll let you know when I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed the dialogue only ones! I've always really liked the ones I've done, even though they usually get the least views and comments. They feel like cheats sometimes, but I think it works better for a setup like this. Thanks for sticking with me thus far!


	24. Auditory: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went much longer than I thought it would! All in all, this might be my longest dialogue only fic I've done. Though Behind Closed Doors might be close.

“I’m back.”

 

“Hey, Myc. You comfortable?”

 

“Yes, fine. Are you in your room now as well?”

 

“Yep, just went to make sure everything was locked up. So, how do you want this to go?”

 

“Would you be open to a slight variation on your ‘instructions’ proposal?"

 

“Sure. What are you thinking?”

 

“You said you wished you could be here with me?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“Then I’d like you to describe what you would do if you were. And while you do, perhaps I could… follow along on my own. With my hands, I mean.”

 

“Ohhh, that’s brilliant. You still have anything on?”

 

“Just the towel around my waist.”

 

“Remove that for me.”

 

“…It’s gone.”

 

“Okay, lie back and close your eyes. You can hear me alright?”

 

“I still have you on speaker.”

 

“Good. Not really fair to call me when you were in the bath, by the way. I might have had to go another four days thinking about you naked and wet.”

 

“Truth be told? That’s partly why I mentioned it.”

 

“Oh, you bastard; I fucking _knew_ you did that on purpose.”

 

“Shame you aren’t here to do anything about it.”

 

“If I were, I damn well wouldn’t have let you dry off. I’d tossed you straight on that bed and started licking the water off you. Neck first.”

 

“Hm, you’re quite fond of that area, aren’t you?”

 

“So are you. I can tell. The way your pulse jumps under my lips, those little sounds you make in your throat that you think I don’t catch.”

 

“Ngk...”

 

“Yeah, just like that. Keep it up, okay? Let me know when you like what I’m doing.”

 

“I’ll try.”

 

“Thanks. I’d move down to your chest next; leave some marks as I go that you’d have to hide under your collar. Take my time making your nipples hard with my tongue. Know how you love my mouth there, though fingers seem to work pretty well too, don’t they?”

 

“Yes…”

 

“Where’re your hands, Myc?”

 

“T-they’re there.”

 

“You’re so sensitive in so many places. Stomach, hips, thighs…"

 

“Gregory…”

 

"You always have a hard time staying still when I’m between your legs. Never can resist teasing you a bit while I’m there. Nothing too rough, just a few bites and pinches to make your breath catch.”

 

“Ngh…! Ah… Ah…”

 

“That’s good, Myc. You know I like to hear you. It’s fun when we have the time to see just how far you can stretch that self-control of yours. But you don’t really want to be patient tonight, do you? Been a long day already. You want my hand sliding down your thigh, wrapping around your cock-”

 

“God, yes…”

 

“You have lube, sweetheart?”

 

“Next to the bed. Wait, I’ll just… _Ohhh_ , God, Gregory…”

 

“Been using it a bit while you were there?”

 

“Yes. Wanted you. Missed you…”

 

“I did the same thing. We’re taking care of it now though, aren’t we? Stroking nice and steady, letting that feeling build…”

 

“Ah… Gregory, it’s - it’s not-“

 

“What?”

 

“Not… enough. Please, I need-”

 

“You need a little more?”

 

“More, please…“

 

“You want fingers too? Want something inside you?”

 

“Oh…! Yes Gregory, yes.”

 

“Get some more lube, okay? Don’t hurt yourself going too fast.”

 

“I won’t, it’s – Ah! _Yes…_ Oh bloody hell, that’s perfect…”

 

“You can reach it, can’t you? Nice, ah, thing about those long fingers of yours. I know that from experience... oh…”

 

“G-Gregory? Are you-?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Oh God… Oh God…!”

 

“You’re almost there, gorgeous. Just let it happen. God, if I could only see you, touch you. You sound amazing Myc, please, let me hear it-”

 

“Please, Gregory, please, I’m so close – Oh, there! Oh God, Greg, GREG! AH!!!”

 

“ _Myc…!_ Oh, fuck....! Ngh!”

 

“Ah… Ah… mmm…”

 

“…Wha - Jesus, what the-? Didn’t think I was gonna come that fast, hah…"

 

“……….”

 

“Myc, you there? You okay?”

 

“Mmphfgkphm…”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m fine. Just…slightly brain addled, at the moment.”

 

“Heh, guess that means you enjoyed yourself.”

 

“Enjoyed? Goodness, that was – I’ve never experienced anything like that on my own.”

 

“Just had to get you into the right mindset. Though I hope I get a little credit for it.”

 

“Of course. Gregory, you were extraordinary. Thank you.”

 

“So were you. You feeling better?”

 

“Mmm, wonderful. I do need another wash, but I believe I’ll sleep quite well.”

 

“Me too. Just four more days. I can’t wait.”

 

“Yes. I look forward to thanking you properly for tonight.”

 

“Christ, Myc, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

 

“I'll endeavor to make it as pleasant as possible. Well, I should let you go now. My thanks again, Gregory. Until next time?”

 

“You bet. Good night, Myc. Sleep well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is really only so many times you can use the exclamation ah and related things before it gets silly. I'm hoping I made it work out all right. But I guess that's why dialogue sex is a bit tougher. Sometimes less is more. XD


	25. (Myc)roft: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was less that he hated the nickname and more that he hated what it always seemed to represent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the way I've split this story, I might be a bit more on track again. Hopefully. But only four more days, I'm on the home stretch!

“MYC!”

 

Mycroft felt the instantaneous crease form in his brow before even knowing why he was being called. Nine times out of ten, it didn’t bode well when only half his name was honored.

 

“Yes, mummy?” he asked, hiding his anxious frown behind his book.

 

“Where is William?”

 

Mycroft frowned further, noting the tense edge to his mother’s voice. He lowered his book. “In his room. He fell asleep, so I put him in bed.”

 

“Well, I just looked in, and he’s not there.”

 

A fist of cold alarm closed around Mycroft’s heart. “But… that’s where I left him.“

 

“I’ve not interested in where you think you left him, Myc. Where is he now? You were supposed to watch him!” His mother’s voice rose in pitch.

 

Mycroft winced. “It’s only been half an hour. I just wanted to read while he was napping. I was going to go check-“

 

“I’m not interested in your excuses! Now, get up this instant and help me find him!”

 

William, as it turned out, had only gone a short distance down the hall to their father’s study. They found him ten minutes later ensconced under the oak desk, crayons and papers scattered around him.

 

“Goodness, Myc,” his mother chided, holding William’s hand as they walked down the stairs, “you’re nearly thirteen now. I should think you’d be able to handle watching a six year old when I ask. Do try to show a bit more responsibility.”

 

Mycroft nodded, following with his gaze on his feet. “Yes, mummy.”

 

Another mistake in his mother’s eyes.

 

Another drop in the bucket.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft disliked when Paul dragged him to these parties. Too much smoke, too much noise, he never knew anyone. Even drinking was tiresome, and he never felt like doing much of it considering the heinous concoctions that were being served. He was almost grateful when Paul hauled him into an empty bedroom, even if his hands were clumsy and his breath stank of alcohol fumes. Right now a sloppy quickie was infinitely preferable to remaining out there.

 

“God, yeah,” groaned Paul as they ground together. He slipped his hands into Mycroft’s trousers and palmed his rear. “Fucking love your arse, Myc.”

 

Mycroft stiffened, what precious little arousal he had flagging. He pushed Paul back with a hand to his chest. “I told you not to call me that.”

 

Paul blinked, stumbling back slightly. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, for fuck’s sakes. Are you still on about that?”

 

“I’ve told you several times. It's not that difficult.”

 

“It’s just a nickname, what’s the big deal? Actually sounds like something a normal person would be called.”

 

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to understand it. Just stop doing it.”

 

“Okay, okay, fine. Jesus,” Paul said, rolling his eyes. Mycroft glowered but allowed Paul to pull their bodies together again. He gave a little moan as Paul mouthed at his throat, uncoordinated but still rather effective. “Now can we please get back to it, `Mycroft`?”

 

Mycroft sighed. “Very well.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was less that he hated the nickname and more that he hated what it always seemed to represent. Disrespect. Belittlement. Undeserved informality he had never agreed to. It was a small comfort that the people who dared to use it were usually limited to family and close relatives, though that made it more difficult to keep them from saying it. Oddly enough, despite his habit of needling Mycroft any way he could, Sherlock would not stoop to that method. Perhaps he found it too easy a target. Part of Mycroft liked to think that maybe it meant their relationship wasn’t completely hopeless after all.

 

There wasn’t much risk of the nickname being said outside of his family circle. To the majority of the world around him, he was Mr. Holmes. People that he did manage to grow close to were allowed to call him Mycroft, but very few took that further. Either they didn’t realise what his name shortened into, or they were smart enough not to cross that line. The ones that did were always strangely defensive at his irritation, as though he’d rescinded a privilege they’d never had in the first place.

 

Well, they rarely stuck around for very long. So it always worked itself out in the end.

 

He couldn’t understand the attachment to a moniker that wasn’t theirs to claim.

 

Or why he had to be made to suffer it for their sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a fic about nicknames and/or the way that Greg and Mycroft address each other. Wanted to write a bit more in that vein, with the head cannon that Mycroft really doesn't like being called Myc.


	26. (Myc)roft: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There should have been a flare of resentment, that familiar resignation of correcting someone once again. 
> 
> But it didn’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It went longer again, whyyyyyy? Nah, I like where this landed. Not bad, not bad.

“As I said, this is a matter that must be dealt with internally. I really don’t know how I can make this any simpler for you-“

 

“You can piss off with that condescending tone, Mycroft. I’m not an idiot, so stop talking to me like I’m one. I understand fine why you’re taking this from my team. What I’m not happy about is your guys bursting onto my scene without any kind of warning. Is it so hard to let me know that it’s coming, or can’t you be bothered to send a damn text?!”

 

Mycroft had to forcibly stop himself from snapping back. He was letting his temper get away from him, something that seemed to happen quite a bit around Lestrade. And as it was, Lestrade’s grievances weren’t entirely unjustified.

 

In this case.

 

Lord, it was so much more complicated when he wasn’t indifferent to the person on the other side of the argument. He wouldn’t even be having this conversation with anyone else in NSY. But he couldn’t - wouldn’t - brush Lestrade aside like that. Besides everything he’d done for Sherlock, Lestrade was a good man, a good cop, and more deserving of respect than many of the sad examples of authority in London. Mycroft considered him one of his most trusted colleagues.

 

It even seemed that they had somehow become friends, more to Lestrade’s credit than his own. Mycroft couldn’t say he understood it, but he found it held a fair amount of significance to him. Which perplexed him even more.

 

“I-“ He paused, calming himself so he could phrase things properly. “My apologies, Detective Inspector. You’re quite right. I should have called ahead.”

 

Lestrade’s brow drew together. “Wait, just like that? I’m right, you’re apologising?”

 

“Must you make it so dramatic? I’m not above admitting wrong when it’s warranted.”

 

Lestrade eyed him skeptically as though waiting for some additional pushback. Then he sighed, his shoulders loosening. “Thank you then. Look, just… give me a heads up from now on? We could make the transition a lot less hectic if my people aren’t caught off guard when your suits come in. Easier for all of us, right?”

 

“Of course. I can’t promise that this won’t happen again. But I will endeavor to make those occurrences as infrequent as possible.”

 

“All I’m asking,” Lestrade said, smiling. The tension in the room seemed to ease considerably. He glanced at his watch, thinking for a moment, and stood. “Well, since I don’t have a crime scene anymore, I’m going to bugger off to an early lunch. You wanna come with, My?”

 

Mycroft blinked. It had gone by so quick that his brain actively had to chase down what had just been said and reexamine it. “My?”

 

Lestrade glanced over in the middle of pulling on his coat. “Yeah, I – Oh.” Embarrassment skittered over his face. “Uh, sorry Mycroft. That was rude of me.”

 

There should have been a flare of resentment, that familiar resignation of correcting someone once again.

 

But it didn’t come.

 

_My._

 

The lack of that one letter shouldn’t have made any difference.

 

And yet…

 

“Where did that come from?”

 

Lestrade shrugged, looking a bit puzzled himself. “Just kinda slipped out. Sorry, I guess I assumed without thinking.”

 

“No, it’s… fine.” Mycroft heard himself say it, thought it over, and decided that yes, he really did mean it. “I don’t mind if you call me that.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, perhaps just between us? I’m not sure about having others hear.”

 

“Oh, no problem. Don’t want to abuse the opportunity, you know?” Lestrade said, eyes twinkling. “I’ll just keep it to a minimum.”

 

Mycroft felt a touch of warmth under his skin. “I appreciate it, Detective Inspector. And yes, I believe I will join you for lunch. I feel I should treat after today’s inconvenience.”

 

“Thanks. Still not letting you completely off the hook, though.” Lestrade’s hand had closed over the doorknob when he stopped, turning back. “You can call me Greg, you know. The title’s a bit of a mouthful.”

 

Another little bloom of heat, centered in his midsection. It was rather nice. “If you’d like. Would you object if I used Gregory? It feels less… informal.”

 

“Huh, makes me sound all dignified. I like it.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft collapsed back on the bed; chest heaving, vision still white around the edges. He could swear Greg was grinning against his thigh.

 

“Christ, look at you.” Mycroft twitched as Greg pressed a kiss onto an already over-sensitised area and moved up next to his side. “My ego’s not gonna fit in your flat at this rate.”

 

Mycroft laughed breathlessly. “A bit of inflation would be well-deserved, all things considered,” he said, curling into Greg’s warmth. “I expect I’ll enjoy learning that skill.”

 

“Might take multiple lessons.”

 

“Quite all right. I can only benefit from an in-depth curriculum.”

 

Greg chuckled, nuzzling against Mycroft’s hair. “Pace yourself, My. We’ve got all night yet.”

 

“Hm. …Gregory?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Why `My`?”

 

Greg shifted back slightly to see Mycroft’s face. “Why not? Thought you were okay with it.”

 

“I am. I’m just curious why you use that nickname in particular.”

 

“What else would I use?”

 

“Most people default to Myc,” Mycroft said, grimacing.

 

“Myc? Huh…. Yeah, I guess I see why they would.” Greg lifted an eyebrow, mouth crooking upwards. “What, want me to switch?”

 

“Don’t you dare. I’m not above forcibly ejecting you from this bed.”

 

“Oi, bit excessive!” But Greg laughed, leaning in to kiss Mycroft’s furrowed brow. “Don’t worry. Myc isn’t bad, but it doesn’t really suit you.” He moved down, kissing the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “Doesn’t say enough.” Next to Mycroft’s cheek, brushing the emerging stubble. “My man. My heart.” Lips met, caressed, sighed and parted. “Mine.”

 

Mycroft looked at Greg, struck by such an intense sense of fondness he couldn’t do anything but kiss him again. Greg hummed happily into his mouth, seemingly unaware of how deeply he affected Mycroft.

 

They lapsed into silence shortly after, Mycroft whispering once into Greg’s ear before setting his considerable talents towards making Greg forget every other name but theirs by the end of the evening.

 

“As are you, Gregory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I am a Myc person. But I wanted to play with My for a change, even actually have both nicknames in the same story.
> 
> My does seem a bit more.. elegant, in it's way? But I like Myc for the more humanizing factor, that he'd let someone call him something so informal once he trusted them enough. Or that he'd make an exception for Greg. Or that he'd somehow know just by the way Greg said it that he was saying "Myc" and not "Mike" like others might. Which would make it less ordinary, more special.


	27. An Exception: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, I'm sorry. ::insert excuse about work here::. Also fluff that may be out of character, I'm not sure. XD

The sound of the front door opening caught Greg’s attention. He sat up, listening. “Myc?”

 

He didn’t hear his greeting returned, but there was the clear sound of quick footsteps heading up the stairs. A door on the upper floor closed a moment later.

 

Greg turned off the telly, puzzled. It had to be Myc; the flat had one electronic code lock and another that needed a key as well. Not just anyone could come wandering in. With a frown, he got to his feet and went to the second floor himself.

 

He found the bedroom door closed. He paused as he reached for the doorknob, opting to knock instead.

 

“Myc?” He knocked again. “Myc, you in there?”

 

He was about to give up and head back down the stairs when the door finally creaked open. Mycroft peered out in a rather cagey manner, jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up. “Yes?”

 

“Hey, thought I heard you. Welcome back.”

 

“Oh. Thank you.”

 

“…Everything all right?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft’s face was completely blank. “I thought I’d just change before dinner. It shouldn’t take me long.”

 

“Uh, okay. Do you want me to cook something or should we get-“

 

“ _Mew. ”_

Greg stopped. Mycroft tensed.

 

“Um… Myc?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What was that?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“ _Mew. ”_

 

“Oh, damn it all.” Mycroft scowled at Greg’s emerging grin. With a grumble, he pulled the door open and stepped aside to let Greg in.

 

Mycroft’s jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the bed; odd treatment for one of his suits. As Mycroft approached, the bundle of fabric shifted, something stirring underneath. A grey lined face poked out into the open, twitching ears and pale green eyes at alert.

 

Ohhh, this was just too good.

 

“Mycroft Holmes, what is this?”

 

“I think it should be obvious,” Mycroft said, a little terse.

 

Greg didn’t think his smile could get any bigger. “Oh, it is. I just want to hear you explain it.”


	28. An Exception: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some awkwardness, and a realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got fluffier.

It was nearly precious how put out Mycroft looked. Even his glower came off as boyishly sulky in Greg’s mind.

 

“The driver found it wedged up on one of the car wheels as we were leaving the office. We had to spend a good twenty minutes coaxing it out.”

 

“And you couldn’t just leave it there?”

 

“I was going to take it to a shelter.”

 

“Oh. Considerate of you.”

 

Mycroft gave a small huff. “Too many displaced animals around London as it is.”

 

“True,” Greg said, eyed Mycroft expectantly. “But doesn’t seem like you made it there.”

 

“Yes, well… shelters are notoriously overcrowded. I thought I would expedite matters. See I could find someone willing to take it.”

 

“So you were going to keep it here? You’re being pretty proactive about this, aren’t you?”

 

Mycroft glared at Greg, his non-existent feathers looking more and more ruffled. “Is there something wrong with that?”

 

“No, not at all.” Greg ran his hand down Mycroft’s arm, fingers curling around his hand. He tugged him forward, kissing the corner of his frown. “Very nice of you.”

 

A creaky meow caused their heads to turn. The cat had slunk out from the confines of Mycroft’s jacket, hunching low as its tail flipped back and forth. It was a small creature; its fur completely grey, somewhere between a kitten and an adult. Greg took a step closer and it straightened, meowing again.

 

“Seems comfortable with people," Greg observed. He held out a hand, and the cat leaned its head up to nudge against his palm.

 

“Indeed. It was quite friendly during the car ride. It refused to leave my jacket.”

 

“…How’s that?”

 

“It crawled inside my jacket. It refused to be removed, so eventually I gave up trying.”

 

“You-” Greg stared Mycroft, his delight growing. “It had a cuddle with you?”

 

Mycroft realised the mental image Greg was looking at and pinkened. “I wouldn’t call it a `cuddle`. It most likely found my body a useful source of heat.”

 

“Oh my God, I get it now.”

 

“You get what?” Mycroft asked, defensive.

 

Greg grinned. “You got attached, didn’t you?

 

The blush increased further. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only been a hour since I found it.”

 

“Doesn’t take long, Myc, trust me. The dog I had when I was a kid? Took me less than a minute to fall in love with her.” To Greg’s added mirth, the cat hopped down to the floor and immediately weaved itself between Mycroft’s legs. “Looks like he likes you too.”

 

Mycroft threw a mildly irritated glare down at his betrayer, which softened as a rumbling purr started. “I’m not attached,” he protested weakly.

 

The urge to pull his lovely, fumbling boyfriend in close was too great for Greg to resist. “Is that why you smuggled him in? Bit embarrassed what I’d think?”

 

Mycroft glanced away, his lips tightening. “I suppose I thought it would seem somewhat out of character for me.”

 

“Not really. Had your number a long time ago, Mr. Holmes.” Greg lowered his head, nuzzling against his neck. “Already knew how sweet you can be.”

 

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft murmured once more, shivering.

 

That insistent meow interrupted them again. Smiling, Greg crouched down and scooped the cat up in his arms. “Come ‘ere, old man.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “`Old man`? I don’t believe it’s even a year old yet. And you’re sure it’s a male?”

 

“Oh, good point.” Greg made a quick visual check. “Yeah, it’s male. Anyway, he’s already got my hair colour and everything. Lucky it suits him though.” He winked at Mycroft. “This just your thing? Picking up greying strays?”

 

Something warm diffused through Mycroft’s expression. Mindful of the load in Greg’s arms, he leaned in, placing a slow kiss and a sigh on Greg’s lips. “You are hardly a stray.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not glad you chose me.”

 

“The sentiment is mutual.”

 

There was a lull, a silent moment between them.

 

“Let’s keep him.”

 

Mycroft pulled back in surprise. “You want to?”

 

“Yeah.” Mycroft was caught off guard when Greg gently handed the cat over to him. “He chose you too. Can’t really argue with that.”

 

Mycroft blinked as the cat bumped its nose against his before draping its upper body over Mycroft’s shoulder. He was still at first, uncertain. Then, he drew a tentative hand down the cat’s back. The droning purr immediately revved to life. Mycroft exhaled, a quiet sort of smile rising over his face.

 

“What shall we call him?” he asked softly.

 

Greg smiled too. “Reggy?” He laughed as Mycroft pulled a face.

 

“Don’t worry. I’m sure we can figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that cat's name is so Reggy. My head canon is that they end up naming it Reginald, because Mycroft does like that version of the name, and Greg still gets to call it Reggy. And Old Man.
> 
> Also, the whole "love in an instant" pet thing did happen to me with my second cat. The second that thing curled up in my lap, it was over.


	29. The Whisper Of Potential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John and Sherlock begin, Mycroft and Greg take steps of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My other story stalled, and then I found this snippet in my drafts that I've been meaning to expand on. It actually turned out about how I wanted it too.

Greg grudgingly sent Sherlock off with the promise that he’d come to the Yard the next day and make a report. He watched him collect Dr. Watson and stroll away, both men snickering like schoolboys. Greg grimaced. He could only imagine the chaos those two were going to cause.

 

Greg was not entirely surprised to see a familiar black car pull up a few yards away. He wagered that Sherlock facing down a serial killer cabbie had prompted a personal appearance from big brother Holmes. Greg hoped that meant Mycroft would forego pulling him in for the standard Sherlock debriefing. The paperwork for this case was already going to take him days to get through.

 

Greg could tell Sherlock was irritated at his brother’s arrival, while Mycroft wore an expression of polite tolerance. After barely a minute of conversation, Sherlock spun around on his heel and stalked off. Dr. Watson hovered back as he exchanged a few words with Mycroft before jogging after the detective.

 

Mycroft watched them go with a frown. He shook his head, saying something to his assistant. She nodded and got back into the car, her blackberry never leaving her hands. Mycroft paused as he reached for the door handle. He turned, his eyes almost immediately fastening onto Greg.

 

Greg straightened, feeling oddly like he’d been caught doing something inappropriate. He acknowledged Mycroft with a polite nod.

 

Mycroft smiled. It was a small thing, the corners of his mouth just barely curving up. He stuck his head inside the open car door, speaking to his assistant, or maybe to the driver. Then he closed the door, turning away as the car drove off.

 

Greg looked around, seeking out his sergeant. “Donovan!”

 

“Yeah, boss?”

 

“Can you handle the rest of this?”

 

She nodded, going back to her conversation with one of the forensics agents.

 

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said as Greg jogged up to him.

 

“Evening, Mr. Holmes. Bit of a commotion tonight, wasn’t it?”

 

“In a word. I applaud your delicacy in handling this situation.”

 

That little muted compliment was much more appreciated when one understood the level of standards Mycroft adhered to.

 

“Can’t say I’m happy with Sherlock for taking off without a word like he did. Good thing about John figuring things out so quick.”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft looked at Greg, thoughtful. “I suppose you’re not under any illusion as to what actually occurred?”

 

Greg scoffed. “Faceless vigilante shows up and manages that shot through the window of another building right at the same time John is here searching for Sherlock? Not to mention if I look into what Sherlock already let slip, I’m damn sure it’ll match John Watson’s profile down to the letter. Simplest explanation is usually the right one.” He shrugged, glancing off in the direction Sherlock and John had headed. “Unfortunately, don’t really have any concrete evidence to back up my theory. So, nothing I can do.”

 

“I might have searched Dr. Watson for a weapon if I were in your place.”

 

“Yeah?” Greg asked, a tiny smirk forming, “Hm. Shame I didn’t think of that. Guess I am a rubbish cop.”

 

Something close to amusement flickered over Mycroft’s face. “How morally ambiguous of you.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

Greg thought he might have heard Mycroft chuckle, but it was gone before he could be sure. Mycroft’s eyes drifted over the controlled disorder of flashing lights and NSY personal milling about. “What is your opinion of John Watson?” he asked, his attention fixed on Greg even when not looking at him.

 

Greg followed Mycroft’s line of sight for a moment, thinking. “He was willing to shoot someone for Sherlock. And Sherlock shut down my questions when he thought I was about to figure it out. Haven’t even known each other two days and they’re willing to go to those lengths to protect each other. I can’t think of many people who would do that even for someone they'd known for years.” He glanced at Mycroft. “What do you think?”

 

Mycroft made a noncommittal kind of `hm` sound. “Undecided. As it is, I’m more concerned at the implications behind this so called `sponsor` that Mr. Hope cited before his untimely death.”

 

The start of something uneasy materialised in the back of Greg’s mind. “You think bad times are coming?”

 

Mycroft’s mouth became a hard line. Greg felt even more unsettled by the visible disquiet he could see in the action. “I think Sherlock and John may have unwittingly embroiled themselves in the thick of something much darker than we know.”

 

Even with that ominousness, Mycroft apparently wasn’t one to dwell on the matter. A blink, and his unflappable veneer resolidified around him.

 

“At any rate,” Mycroft said, disinterestedly adjusting one of his cuffs, “I’ll be increasing surveillance on them and their other close contacts for the time being. You are included in that group, of course.”

 

Greg heaved a sigh even as he nodded. “Can I ask you not to bug my office again?”

 

“You wound me, Detective Inspector. The circumstances behind that were very different.” He turned to Greg, one of those inscrutable expressions on his face. “I’m also afraid you will have to suffer my presence more frequently in the future.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Greg said without thinking. He realised the next second that he wasn’t saying it just to be kind either.

 

Even Mycroft looked momentarily taken aback. That quiet smile twitched on his lips, and surprisingly, remained.

 

“I believe I heard Sherlock and John discussing dinner. I’m somewhat unfamiliar with the available fare at this hour, but would you be at all interested in something to eat?”

 

Greg raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised at the offer, and bit more surprised at how appealing it sounded. He gestured towards his car, and they fell into step side by side as they walked off together.

 

“Do I get to choose?”

 

“If you like. Though I can’t promise I won’t veto your options.”

 

“Christ, you’re high maintenance.”

 

“I prefer to call it discerning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit more Johnlocky than I meant it to go, but I'm not opposed to it. I may try Johnlock at some point, if I can tear myself away from Mystrade.
> 
> There's something about that little grin you catch on Lestrade's face right at the end of Study in Pink after he lets Sherlock leave. You only see it for a second before the camera cuts away, but it makes me wonder. I don't think Greg's stupid. I think he's fully aware of what John did, but he can already see how good the two of them are for each other, especially in Sherlock's case. And he's probably already bent the rules for Sherlock on occasion. I think he saw the good in doing it again in this case.


	30. It's Just The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been worth everything once they got there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended last year's November Mystrade with a wedding, so let's end this one with a bit of the honeymoon.

The soft ebb and flow of waves in the distance. The beginning orange of sunrise peeking through the curtains. The brush of air through the window they’d left open last night. It was still early, not quite seven. God awful early by Greg’s standards, but normal by Mycroft’s internal clock. He’d even woken right on cue without an alarm going off. Greg had turned on his back during the night, one arm still curled around Mycroft’s back. Mycroft lay there on his side, observing Greg’s gentle breathing, how his lips twitched every so often in his sleep. Greg’s other hand rested on his chest, a glint of silver on the finger that had spent previous years bare.

 

Mycroft glanced at his own new ring. They’d found a beautiful matching pair with a band of nacascolo wood wrapped around the middle. It was strange to wear one again after giving his old ring to Greg for the proposal. Greg now wore that one on his left hand, too sentimental to give it up.

 

They’d kept things simple and intimate, renting a small estate outside of London for a private wedding with only family and close friends. Everything had been meticulously planned, with Greg joking about Mycroft’s perfectionist ways. But no one could argue with the end results. Even mummy had barely any criticisms to offer.

 

He could still feel Greg’s hand squeezing his as they first entered the hall, could see the shine of tears as he’d said his vows. Overwhelmed as he had been, Mycroft had held himself in check throughout the ceremony. It wasn’t until later during his dinner toast that’d he glanced down at Greg and his throat had suddenly tightened at the adoration he saw. He’d had to stop, moisture pricking in the corners of his eyes. Greg had eased his embarrassment, standing and kissing him with whispers of “I love you” amidst the applause. Molly and Mrs. Hudson had openly cried. Even Sherlock had looked quietly pleased for them. Mycroft had caught sight of his hand sneaking under the table to grasp John’s, and he thought it may not be long before he was attending a similar event to this one in the future.

 

Then, the blur of being seen off by the throng, boarding a private jet to arrive in Italy, then by car to a cliffside town and their own temporary villa overlooking the sea. The start of two and a half glorious weeks of honeymoon. First Cinque Terre, then Annecy, Rüdesheim am Rhein, and finally back to Great Britain for a few days in Oban.

 

It felt like a good mixture of cultures and cities; Greg so rarely got to travel and had gone through the process of helping select their destinations with an almost childlike glee. Mycroft planned for this sort of thing to be a much more regular occurrence for them in the future.

 

They’d arrived a bit too worn to do much for the rest of the day, but too keyed up to rest. After the initial explorations of the house, they’d found dinner at a lovely café just ten minutes away and then returned to watch the sunset from their balcony. They’d only made it through about half a glass of wine before light caresses turned more purposeful, kisses more urgent. Greg had led him to bed, clothes slipped off and discarded along the way.

 

Both of them had been of the same mind that neither wanted a mad rush to completion. Mycroft settled against the headboard with Greg on his lap, touching as if it was the first time, slowly rocking together as breath expanded and sensation built. They’d occasionally broken eye contact to kiss; tongues, moans, and whimpers all melding in their mouths. Then, movements became more restless. Gasps against each other’s lips, foreheads pressed together. The final hard thrusts, the splash of wet heat between their bodies, the shudder of released tension. They’d continued through the night, kissing softly and dozing until need roused them to take and give once again.

 

Only their first official day married, and yet it felt like Mycroft had entered some whole other life. One with seasides, balmy breezes, and the perfect contentment of waking up with Greg Lestrade at his side.

 

A euphoric rush seized around his heart, making him feel foolish, giddy even. If he wasn’t careful he might start giggling. This was real. This was his reality. Years of being indifferently resigned to living out the remainder of his life with nothing but his career and solitude, only to find that an affectionate, funny, and fantastically stubborn Detective Inspector found him worth befriending, worth caring about.

 

Worth swearing his life and heart to.

 

Greg’s breathing stirred. His eyes opened and met Mycroft’s, taking a moment to focus before a sleepy smile appeared. “Good morning,” he whispered, his voice husky and warm.

 

Maybe someday Mycroft wouldn’t marvel at the utter impossibility of it all, would understand how he could be so fortunate to be loved by a man like Greg. Until that time, and long after as well, he would cherish this man in every way he knew. He would show him every day how thankful he was for this life he’d never dreamed could be.

 

Starting with pressing against him for a gentle, drawn-out kiss.

 

“Yes. It certainly is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's 30! Sorry for the lateness. Again. ::weeps::
> 
> Glad it worked out this year, considering the trouble I had keeping up. I sorta feel this year might not have been as varied, that maybe last year was stronger. But I did get some real good things out of this batch. Definitely want to tweak a few stories, and Ghost Mycroft will be continuing, and probably college mystrade as well. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who read along! Love you guys!


End file.
